


(Un)civil

by Elfpen



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: American Civil War, Civil War, FACE Family, Gen, Historical, Historical Hetalia, Letters, the major character death is temporary but if it's hard for you to read I'd stay away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:21:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 28
Words: 44,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26367871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfpen/pseuds/Elfpen
Summary: A FACE-family-centric (heavily centered around the North America twins) retelling of the American Civil War, told in 28 parts through anecdotes, letters, and telegraphs. Rated for language, themes of and depiction of death, other dark historical themes.
Relationships: America & Canada (Hetalia), America & England (Hetalia), America & France (Hetalia), Canada & England (Hetalia), England & France (Hetalia)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 141





	1. September 9, 1859

**September 9, 1859, Quebec**

**The new capital (for the second time) of the Province of Canada**

* * *

Arthur Kirkland was stressed more often than he was relaxed, and the tension he carried in his shoulders alone could've fired an arrow clear across the Indian Ocean. Still, to him this seemed a small price to pay for enjoying a throne atop the rest of the known world. Unfortunately, for all others not named The British Empire, Arthur Kirkland's stress quickly became their stress when the Englishman decided to pay a visit.

Matthew didn't mind. It'd been decades since he'd seen Arthur in person, and despite everything, he'd missed his mentor terribly. Sure, his stomach had turned in several terrified flips when he'd received the letter announcing Arthur's imminent arrival, and sure, Canada hadn't exactly been a _docile_ place for England's Empire types in recent decades, but Matthew was beyond proud of the progress they'd made since Arthur had last visited. Back in the 20's, the Act of Union hadn't been enacted yet—so much had happened in the last nineteen years alone! Matthew was ready to show off his accomplishments: massive railway networks, new trading routes, new trading treaties, prosperity even in the midst of a recession, and most of all, Anglophones and Francophones living together under one united government.

"Do you know, I've never visited Quebec whenever I can possibly avoid it," was the first thing Arthur said to him when he got off the train. The steam hissed loudly all around them, but Matthew could still hear the distaste in the Brit's voice. It was always so when Arthur had to listen to French. "You really ought to stop relocating your capital, especially to these god-awful French parts. I do hope you've done something to improve the place."

If it was as close as he'd come to a compliment for the next three weeks, Matthew would still be willing to accept it.

They took their business to a local restaurant—an Anglophone establishment, Matthew assured Arthur—a short stroll away from the train station. Matthew tried not to look shocked when he realized he was now as tall as Arthur, and tried to distract Arthur from noticing this same fact by pointing out new buildings in town and explaining each river barge and the treaties it observed as it passed by.

Once seated and waiting for lunch, Matthew ceded all conversation to Arthur. The Empire had come here expressly to let off steam, so Matthew said nothing while he ranted about his new Prime Minister, his new Parliament, the frustrations he felt because of the disagreements between Victoria and her new head of state. He complained about Australia, and India, and even of Canada—though in far softer tones than with the others. Matthew knew that Arthur complained of government, not of nations themselves. Arthur had never held anything but affection for Matthew, and Matthew was well aware of this distinction. Arthur could never hate him, just as deep down, despite whatever he said, Arthur had never hated and could never hate—

"Your brother has become something of a sticking point with this new fellow, Temple," Arthur confided in sour tones. Matthew held his tongue. Whenever he kept company with an irritated Arthur, the conversation would always come around to Alfred, one way or another. "He seems to think that England is only so strong as America is weak. What a pillock. Honestly, has he done any reading into history?"

Matthew chose to sip at his tea and let Arthur rant. He refused to fuel Arthur's grudge. Alfred's economic prosperity was Matthew's prosperity. Their 1854 treaty had solidified that much. Though Matthew detested Alfred in a myriad of ways, he still loved his brother dearly, a love which he knew Arthur also held but would never own.

"Alfred isn't interested in stealing business from you," Matthew said after a while. Arthur had a tendency to assume the world revolved around him. While Matthew appreciated this may be true in Europe, the New World operated on its own terms. "I assure you, he's too caught up in his own affairs to be bothered."

"His own affairs?" Arthur had asked. Whether he'd been offended or confused, Matthew could not distinguish. "What affairs has he to be concerned about?" After a moment of consideration, Matthew shrugged.

"I'm not entirely sure," he'd told Arthur truthfully. "It's been a few years since I saw him in person, but in his letters he always seems troubled by something or other. Complains of headaches often. Says the bickering of Congress makes him sick." Matthew thought that such a report would give Arthur, who'd always been a little bit of a sadist, satisfaction. He was surprised, then, to see such blatant concern play out on Arthur's face.

"Headaches?" the Empire repeated. His thick eyebrows drew low over his summer-green eyes. "What, because of the elections?" Arthur had always been terrible at tracking American politics. Matthew shrugged.

"I don't think so. There aren't any big ones this year, last year was only midterms," He said. "There's been shakeups here and there, but nothing catastrophic." Matthew had never given much serious thought to Alfred's comments, as his twin loved to complain. "The headaches have been around longer than the electorate, I think." This must've been the wrong thing to say, because the vague concern on Arthur's face escalated into something more serious.

"For how long? Did he speak of anything else?" Matthew was surprised by Arthur's interest; he usually avoided talk of Alfred at all costs.

"I don't know. As I said, it's been a few years since I last saw him," he said, giving a shrug as he tried to remember. "In '54 he stayed with me and was acting a little odd. Scatterbrained, really. He kept forgetting where he was and what he was supposed to be doing." Matt shook his head ruefully at the memory. He wasn't used to playing governess to his fully-sovereign twin. "As in his letters, he complained about migraines almost daily."

" _Daily?"_ Arthur interjected. Matt looked up to meet his eyes. Arthur looked frightened.

"Well, yes," Matt said. _What have I done wrong? Hell, what has Al done wrong?_ "But it wasn't a big election year," he demurred, or tried to. "It was just some senate races. I'm sure he was just being melodramatic, you know what he's like." Though Matthew had been trying to assuage Arthur's apparent worry, this only seemed to make it worse.

"Has he since spoken to you of anything else? Fevers? More migraines? Blackouts?" Matthew set down his fork and stared at Arthur. He'd never seen the elder nation become so worked up about Alfred since 1814, and certainly never out of pity.

"I have no idea," Matthew said, wishing Arthur would snap out of it. "And to be honest, even if he's still got something to complain about, he hasn't complained to me, and I'm grateful." Then, hesitantly, "why do you ask?"

Arthur looked up at Matthew, and for a split second the younger nation thought the Empire would deign to give him a full, truthful response.

"It's no matter," Arthur said instead, lips thin and taught like they always were when he was keeping secrets at bay. Matthew strove to not look disappointed. "Tell me more about this railway of yours. I hear it goes all the way out to Montreal. Where else does it go?"

Given such an opportunity to boast his own accomplishments, Matthew pushed aside all thoughts of Alfred and his headaches and related all the boons or having a shiny new railway network.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. "Quebec" here refers to the city (now Quebec City), not the modern Province. At the time, The Province of Canada consisted of very roughly the regions of what is now Ontario and Quebec, with the other colonies (New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Prince Edward's Island, Newfoundland) remaining separate. The region had up until 1840 been referred to as Upper Canada (The southern portion of Ontario and Quebec, around the Great Lakes) and Lower Canada (the southeastern portion of what is now Quebec, in addition to Labrador). The regions experienced considerable division between Francophone and Anglophone spheres of administration and civilian life. The Act of Union joined the two under one government, a measure that is often interpreted as an attempt to establish the supremacy of English over French by establishing it as the language of administration in the entire Province of Canada.
> 
> 2\. Canada experienced an economic boom in the middle of the 19th century which both coincided with and benefited from the establishment of the first large railways in the colony. A 1854 Treaty of Reciprocity (also called the Elgin-Marcy Treaty) between all colonies of British North and the United States was a large step toward free trade between the two entities. Near the beginning of the American Civil War, many of the railway companies (notably the Grand Trunk Railway) suffered losses during an economic downturn. Nevertheless, Canada continued to grow, particularly in the main Provincial region.


	2. November 7, 1860

**November 7, 1860, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania**

**One day after the 1860 Presidential election.**

* * *

It had all started with headaches. That had been years ago, though Alfred couldn't really remember exactly how many years it'd been. The headaches had come and gone, as so many things did, and he hadn't thought much of them. The life of a nation was a maelstrom of tiny ills that emerged and resolved at the turn of the wind. Sure, Alfred moaned about his sore head to Buchanan, and to Matthew, and really anyone else who would listen, but he never really thought about their cause. He'd just needed space to vent.

Then, they'd started to happen every day. Then they'd gotten worse. At one point, he'd lay in bed for nearly seventeen hours with all the curtains drawn and candles snuffed just to make sure he wouldn't vomit. He'd tried everything. Medicines, tonics, laudanum. He'd tried changing his diet and drinking more water, less water, more beer, _less_ beer. He'd replaced all his pillows and forsaken wearing a tie for a week just to see if it would help. The only thing that particular experiment had accomplished was earn him reprimands from half a dozen senators affronted by his being under-dressed.

Migraines notwithstanding, he tried to function as normally as he could, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. The headaches began to affect him in different ways: confusing his memory, impairing his speech, making him think one thing but say another. He couldn't make heads or tails of it.

Then he'd started losing time. He'd wake up at dawn in his nightshirt, go to wash his face, and suddenly he was fully dressed and sitting with foreign ministers at the White House, halfway through lunch with the sun high overhead and no memory of anything that had happened between for the last six hours.

He wished he had someone else to confide in, but he didn't know what he would've said. _"Yes I'm very sorry Mr. President,"_ he tried to imagine saying to James Buchanan, the great lump of a bachelor who'd been occupying the Oval Office for the last four years, _"I know you're very busy and have a lot on your plate, but you wouldn't happen to have any idea why I keep waking up in the middle of doing something without knowing where I am, how I got there, or what I've been doing for several hours of my life?"_

Not knowing who or what to turn to, Alfred did what Alfred was incredibly good at doing: he ignored the problem and hoped it would disappear on his own. In his defense, this was how many ills resolved among nations. Economy given you the sniffles? Wait it out. Bad crops giving you arthritis? Take it easy for a while. Massive storms give you a cold? Sleep it off.

Unfortunately, by the time the presidential election rolled around, this passive approach had had done nothing but grow a giant bezoar of worry in the pit of Alfred's stomach, a truth that he'd refused to acknowledge for months.

"It's getting worse," he confronted himself in the mirror, glaring into his own tired eyes. "You're getting worse, and you don't even know what the hell it is."

Then, something strange happened. Alfred's reflection moved, while Alfred himself stood still. It glared at him hard and its eyes seemed to darken, from sky blue to a churning Gulf indigo. Then, it snarled back its lips and began to speak.

" _Yes you fucking do,"_ said the reflection in a deep drawl. It sounded tinny and muffled as if trapped behind glass. _"You know exactly what's wrong, Yankee Boy."_

Startled beyond comprehension, Alfred drew back a fist and punched. The mirror cracked into dozens of shards, and while a few tinkled onto the ground, those that remained reflected Alfred's expression back at him in a mosaic of horror. He stood there, heart pounding, breathing heavy, bleeding fist drawn back at the ready.

That was the first, but certainly not the last time that Alfred encountered what he dubbed The Other in the days leading up to the general election. The Other was, as far as Alfred could tell, his own reflection, but it was not _him_. He wasn't sure what it was, but he knew it scared him shitless. He removed all the mirrors from his life, and fixed his hair and his tie blind each morning. He still caught glimpses of his reflection in dark windows at night, the glare on his own glasses, tepid ponds, and puddles after rain. He couldn't avoid it all, but he could try.

Alfred had always hated the idea of magic. It wasn't that he didn't _believe_ in magic, despite what he told others, and whatever else Arthur assumed. Alfred Jones knew in his bones that magic was real—after all, what was he?—but it was easier to lie to himself. Acknowledging the truth drudged up unpleasant memories that he wished desperately to forget. New England had been a starved, angry, and superstitious place, back then. There hadn't been any witchcraft at work when their children died and General Winter stole their animals, but there'd been enough fear and anger to expedite their children's eternally-young playmate from the witchfinder's prison to the hangman's noose. That had been the first time Alfred had ever died. He'd been too small to hang quickly; it'd taken nearly an hour. He'd very nearly died a second time clawing himself out of the shallow grave two days later. He'd spat up soil for days, and vowed to never again be called a witch.

It seemed as though the witches had found him. It'd only taken a few hundred years for them to track him down.

" _You can feel it coming, can't you?"_ The Other's voice had begun to follow him in recent days, a waking nightmare stalking his thoughts. _"You know what will happen."_ He could practically feel the noose tightening around his neck again, and he tore at the knot of his tie.

Alfred knew by now that he had to tell someone, but who? Buchanan? The man was about to leave office, and anyway, he'd never particularly liked Alfred or understood what he was. Did he dare write to Matthew? To Arthur, even? Would they think he was crazy? Would they interpret it as weakness, insanity? Relations with the Empire were already tenuous enough, and he knew Matt was growing wary of him, what with all the western expansion. He hadn't spoken to any of the other nations in eons, and he couldn't possibly reveal his plight to foreign powers without inviting some kind of trade war or invasion.

It wasn't until the day after the election that the headaches and the blackouts and The Other coalesced into a new, all-encompassing reality. They'd only just begun tallying votes, and the College wouldn't be summoned to Washington for weeks, but Alfred knew. He felt it in his bones. He, Alfred Jones, was happy, but there was a boiling rage festering in his stomach that rose up through his throat, past his nose and into his brain like boiling champagne.

"I will not be lorded over by bleeding-heart abolitionists," growled the Other.

This time, the words weren't in his head. _Alfred_ was saying those words, speaking that drawl. Alfred's own throat was rumbling around the hatred, Alfred's lips drawing back to bare Alfred's teeth. As if in a dream, his feet carried him to the window. In the glare of the mid-afternoon sun, he could just barely see his own reflection, translucent and furious.

"I will keep what is mine."

Alfred's vision started to go dark, head feeling fuzzy, and he began to wonder how long The Other had been doing this without his knowing. He wondered if _this_ was the reason for the lost time, the migraines, everything else. He wondered at what point he'd would've still had time to tell someone, or if it'd always been too late. His hands moved without his accord and clenched into fists so tight he wondered if the nails would draw blood.

"You can burn for all I care _."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> 1\. Laudanum was a tincture (medicine steeped in liquid solution) of opium. It was widely prescribed for pain, depression, mental instability, etc. I know this sounds kind of ludicrous now, but just try to imagine treating your everyday ills without over the counter pain medications like Tylenol. Now imagine trying to treat clinical depression or anxiety without any understanding of psychology or access to antidepressants. People used what they had available—in this case, lots of opium. For context, Aspirin would not be synthesized until 1899.
> 
> 2\. One of the reasons Lincoln's victory in 1860 was so controversial is that Lincoln didn't even appear on the ballots of some states. Most of the states that excluded him from the ballot were also the states that would later secede from the Union. That alone illustrates how much Southerners disliked Lincoln before the election even began. Of course, it was nothing compared to what would come after.
> 
> 3\. The College referred to here is the Electoral College, which is the United States' method of selecting presidents. Unlike many modern democracies, the United States Presidential election is not determined by popular vote. Rather, each state is awarded a certain number of votes to cast in each election. The number of electors in each state corresponds to the number of senators and representatives from that state in Congress. While each state has just two senators, the number of House representatives per state are ostensibly determined by a state's population, but there are a lot of problems in the modern distribution. Most states (not all—Maine and Nebraska being exceptions) cast all available electoral votes for one candidate, and which candidate those votes go to is (supposed to be) reflective of the state's popular vote.
> 
> In this particular election, 1860, there was incredible dissent after the apparent popular-vote victory of Lincoln, so much so that some feared the College might not ever be assembled in Washington to officially record their votes necessary to elect him president.


	3. February 3, 1861

**February 3, 1861**

**Letter from Matthew Williams in Quebec to Sir Arthur Kirkland in London**

* * *

My Dearest Brother,

I must first apologize that I have allowed so much time to pass since I last wrote to you. It seems only yesterday you were here in Quebec, but at once it seems as though ages of history have passed since you left.

I do not know what the newspapers say in London, but I must assume they've reported on the American situation. Namely, that Abraham Lincoln is the new President-Elect, that he is unpopular in the Southern United States, and that as a result of their displeasure, many of the Southern States have opted to secede from the Union entirely. South Carolina was the first to do so—I received that news two days before Christmas, and felt at once my heart seize up for fear of what I knew would come after.

Upon witnessing the candor of their neighbor, nearly all the other coastal southern states have followed S. Carolina's path. Georgia, Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana have all seceded. I do not know if you will have heard yet, but just yesterday I learned that Texas has seceded as well. To make matters worse, my men tell me that across the South, states have seized control of U.S. armories and arsenals—some at the behest of their own governors, who up until mere weeks ago, were under oath to protect the United States from aggressors! I fear it is only a matter of time before fighting breaks out in earnest. Whether it will be in isolated incidents in the slave states, or between the United States and its wayward south, I cannot say. War feels inevitable.

I have written to Alfred multiple times since Christmas. He has yet to reply. I cannot begin to imagine the chaos unleashed upon Washington at this hour. Lincoln has not yet been inaugurated and already war is marching north toward the capitol. I have met the incumbent, James Buchanan, only once. I held my tongue resolutely around Alfred, but I will bare my thoughts honestly to you: the man will do nothing to quell this rising rebellion. He has striven to avoid the slavery issue since the first days of his oath. I would not be surprised if, upon finding an angry Southern governor on his doorstep with a musket and a torch, he rolled over and showed his belly. For better or for worse, it will be Lincoln's duty to bear the brunt of the trouble that follows his election. His success in meeting such a crisis is moot. I have never met the man, and preceding the election Alfred only ever wrote of him in the briefest of terms.

I know, Sir, that you and Mr. Jones have not been on truly amicable terms in many years, but I trust you share my own concern over his welfare. If the United States should splinter into fractions, be it two or three or ten, it will surely disrupt too many treaties and trade agreements to name. Over this I wring my hands and pull my hair. However, I confess to you that it is thoughts of Alfred himself that have kept me awake in the darkest hours of the night. I worry for him dearly. I trust you will not judge me to harshly for harboring such sentiment. The United States is the United States, but I shall never forsake the love I hold for my brother. He must be in great pain. I know you must have an envoy (or many) en route to the U.S. right now. If you hear word of Alfred, would you tell me?

I trust that you remain well in England and are, I hope, staying arm's length away from your good friend Lord Palmerston. I've heard accusations that you attempted to choke him, Sir, and must communicate my hope that such gossip is baseless. It would do no good for a nation to attack his own Prime Minister. Of course, far be it from me to tell you your own business. I miss you and your conversation. You make tea more skillfully than I. Quebec is frozen solid still, and I would benefit from sharing a drink with you. The ocean may be as broad as Tartarus (especially at this time of year) but please know the candle in my window is ever-lit.

With warmest regards and affection,

Your Brother Matthew Williams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. James Buchanan was the president before Lincoln, and largely avoided getting involved in north vs south concerns regarding the acceptance of slavery. He took office two days before the Dred v. Scott decision, (a court ruling that opened any U.S. territory to slavery up until the time that the territory became a state). Buchanan himself was a northerner, but was sympathetic to the southern argument, and fought for "popular sovereignty" rather than taking firm stances for or against slavery during his tenure.
> 
> 2\. Although the battle at and capture of Fort Sumter in April 1861 is generally regarded as the start of the Civil War proper, southerners, often with the support of governors, had begun to raid U.S. armories and arsenals in the winter, while some states were still seceding. Months before either the Confederacy or the Union called for troops, the South was preparing for a fight.
> 
> 3\. The Lord Palmerston referenced here is Henry John Temple, 3rd Viscount Palmerston. He was the Prime Minister of England at the time. During the American Civil War, he was sympathetic toward the Confederacy, a sentiment he shared with most other upper-crust Englishmen of the same time. In my personal interpretation of Temple and his personality, I think that he and Arthur would get on like oil and water. Arthur is certainly 'upper crust' in a sense, but I think like all nations, his heart lies with his people, not the stodgy old men running the government.


	4. May 8, 1861

**May 8, 1861, Washington D.C.,**

**United States Capitol Building**

* * *

He was shaking, and he didn't think he'd be able to stop. He knew he'd let it go to far. He'd been trying to tell someone, anyone, for weeks, but no matter who he spoke to, the words choked in his throat and what came out made no sense. He didn't understand what was happening to himself, how was he meant to describe it to others? To _humans?_

Alfred took off his glasses and pretended not to notice how the frames quivered because of his shaking hands. He folded them up and slid them into his breast pocket. He leaned over his lap and brought his hands up behind his head so he could pull at his short hair until his fingertips went numb. Face into elbows, elbows into knees, he wished for the world to return to normal. There were a dozen armed men surrounding him on all sides, but none of them seemed to affected by his distress. They'd been ordered to keep him away from others, in case _it_ happened again. If it did, all twelve of them had been given permission to shoot him.

"It can't happen again," Hamlin had barked to the men before he'd left. "It _won't_ happen again, gentlemen."

In the privacy of his hunched pose, Alfred's face crumpled in overwhelming shame. Lincoln had only been in office for a few months. Unlike many fresh presidents, Buchanan among them, Lincoln had taken to Alfred almost immediately. Alfred in turn had taken to Lincoln immediately, and by the end his first week in office was fully prepared to entrust this man with his people, his armies, and his very life.

Alfred had tried to tell Lincoln about The Other multiple times, but the young president was so overwhelmed with the inauguration, then the war, the mustering of troops, there was never a moment where they could speak alone. March had become April, and April had become May. Finally, they'd been allowed to meet on May 8th, over lunch. Alfred had been let in to Lincoln's office.

He'd seen Lincoln's face, and something had snapped. _400,000 troops,_ The Other's voice had rung in his head _._ He'd watched himself move towards Lincoln's desk with rising horror. His left hand had seized the president by the lapels, while his right hand had snatched the knife off his plate. Then, Alfred's vision had gone dark.

He'd woken up in handcuffs some time later in a room he didn't recognize, with angry men standing all around, most of them holding guns.

"What did I do?" He asked them. He was not confused over how he'd ended up here. "Please, please, God tell me I didn't do what I think I did." The men stayed silent, eyeing each other and shifting uncomfortably foot to foot.

While he was still blabbering and wringing his hands, Hannibal Hamlin had arrived and told him that he'd tried to kill his own President. Lincoln was alive and unscathed, but apparently, it'd taken six of the White House's largest staff to subdue Alfred and drag him out of the office.

Alfred had cried and cried. Then, under the weight of the Vice President's furious glare, he'd explained through tears what he'd been trying to tell someone for months: that he wasn't himself anymore, and he had no idea what to do. Hamlin had listened. He'd asked questions. When had it started? December. How many times had this happened? A dozen or so. Could he tell when a fit was coming on? Only seconds before. Eventually, apparently satisfied, Hamlin had stood and turned to leave.

"What are you going to do with me?" Alfred had asked, voice choked and congested from crying. It'd taken the Vice President a long moment to answer.

"Congress will decide, Mister Jones."

So here he was, holed away in the Statuary Hall with a small army standing watch over him while across the Capitol, fifty senators contemplated what to do with him. The House had already passed the resolution—which no one would let Alfred read—and now it was down to the Senate's vote.

A skittish aide appeared at the door. He glanced at Alfred, and then to the armed men all around him.

"You can lead him this way, gentlemen."

Alfred stood and fished out his glasses, just in time to be gestured forward down the hall. His heart was beating hard and fast, and he clenched his hands into fists to hide how much he continued to shake. They'd let him go without handcuffs as a courtesy, but he knew they were all afraid. They crossed the Rotunda. The Supreme Court Chamber. Halls. Offices. Scurrying aides and staff. At last, they let him into the Senate Chamber, and pulled out a chair for him to take a seat. He sat under the weight of attention, and wondered absently if there would be a noose somewhere waiting for him. Hamlin brought the room to order.

"Mister Alfred Franklin Jones," He said, and Alfred flinched at the sound of the seldom-used middle name he'd adopted some years ago. It'd started as a pseudonym, a tongue-in-cheek jab at Benjamin Franklin, who'd often pressured him into hiding his identity in letters. _Christ, if Ben could see me now._ Alfred tried to sit up straight and not cower like he wanted to.

"All those assembled here know you, and know there is no one in Heaven or on Earth who's life depends so desperately on the health of this Union, or its head of state. It is for this reason that Congress must consider your case in the most severe gravity. You have attempted to take the President's life." Alfred's face crumpled again, though he tried to keep it from happening. "The facts surrounding these events are incontrovertable and have multiple witnesses. You yourself have offered no contrary evidence to dispute the crime. However," Hamlin was attempting to make eye contact, Alfred could tell, but he couldn't do it. He couldn't look at him, at _any_ of them, or he'd fall apart. "Your motivations and your very mind were not your own. Upon this conclusion, all of Congress is agreed, and it is upon this consensus that we have founded our votes. Just as you, sir, embody the United States of America in every fibre and sinew, so too you now appear to hold within yourself the lifeblood of the rebellious Confederate States. In such grave times, this represents a danger not only to the President, to the Union, but to yourself. Would you not agree, Mister Jones?" Hamlin was speaking with a great deal of charity. No one here had to give Alfred an explanation, the Vice President was being pointedly kindto him, and it made Alfred feel even worse.

Alfred nodded.

"Then before I proceed to read the decision of Congress, I want to impress upon you and upon every man in this room the deep care and compassion I harbor for you, Mister Jones." For a moment, it looked as though Hamlin might say something else, but then he closed his mouth and turned his attention to the paper sat in front of him. He began to read.

"Be it resolved by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America in Congress assembled in the year one thousand, eight hundred and sixty-one, that the Nation Embodied (hereafter known as Alfred F. Jones) is to be taken into the direct custody of the United States Senate and thereafter imprisoned for the full duration of the present war with the rebellious Confederate States, unless and until Congress amends this Resolution; and in said imprisonment, Alfred F. Jones is to be given whatever just, fair, and equitable rights and privileges afforded to him by firstly by the Senate, and secondly by the Office of the President; and that Alfred F. Jones' imprisonment is to be regarded as a State Secret, and not shared with any man, woman, child, or other entity who is not a sworn officer of these United States unless and until Congress…" Hamlin continued, but Alfred was no longer listening.

He knew why they were doing it. Given a year to think, he would not have arrived at any other solution given the desperation of their situation. Tears streamed down his face even as he sat, expressionless, while Hamlin concluded the resolution. They led him back to the Statuary Hall, where he'd stay under guard until Lincoln could sign the Resolution.

He wished he could have been allowed to see Lincoln, to apologize, to replace the haunting memory of the President's face contorted in surprise and sudden fear.

They took him into custody just after midnight. It was anticlimactic and sudden. Alfred was confused when they led him not outside to a prisoner's cart, but down the stairs to the catacombs of the Capitol. He'd been too overwhelmed to pay attention to the latter half of the Resolution, so he'd missed the part where they'd detailed where he'd be imprisoned. He saw it up ahead of him, gate already open, candles lit and a bed hastily crammed into one of the three alcoves of the cross-shaped room. Sadness and surprise mingled in the pit of his stomach.

They'd built this place as a tomb for Washington, but his dearest General's bones were across the river in Mount Vernon, buried well behind enemy lines. _So this will be my tomb instead,_ the macabre thought sprouted in Alfred's head before he could stop it. They led him into the tomb-turned-cell and swung the gate closed after him.

"Is there anything we might fetch to make you more comfortable, Mister Jones?" It was the first time any of the guards had spoken to him. Alfred toed the five-pointed-star enlaid in the center of the grey-tiled floor. Deep below ground, there were of course no windows.

"If I'd known it was going to be in here, I would've liked to looked outside again before…" but there was nothing for it. He looked up at the guards.

"I have some books in my house, if I gave you a list, would you be able to bring them to me?"

"Of course, sir."

"And a writing desk, paper, pens?"

"Yes, sir." Alfred looked around himself and shuffled. The noise echoed horribly in the makeshift cell.

"That's all for now," he said.

They left him alone, their footsteps echoing into silence as they roamed the empty catacomb halls. Alfred fell into the small bed and thought of George Washington. He thought of Martha, and her children, and the starry skies under which they'd celebrated a new government. The thought crossed his mind: _I want go home._

But therein lay the deepest wound: He _was_ home. He was in the heart of his Capitol building, in his Capital city, and he'd never felt so alone in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Hannibal Hamlin was a senator from Maine who became Lincoln's first Vice President. He was extremely outspoken against slavery and one of the early members of the Republican party. He was dropped off the ticket and replaced by Andrew Johnson as Lincoln's VP pick for his re-election campaign because Lincoln feared that Hamlin's northern-ness might cost him valuable votes from former-Confederate southern states, while Johnson (who was from Tennessee) would appeal to that crowd.
> 
> 2\. On May 8, 1861, Jefferson Davis, the president of the Confederate States of America, authorized 400,000 volunteer troops for the Confederate Army.
> 
> 3\. The details of the layout of the Capitol building are based on my own hazy memory of its interior, and maps, which you can find online.
> 
> 4\. They really did build a tomb for Washington beneath the Capitol! It is in the basement of the building, directly in the center of the building beneath the Rotunda, and is the reason why the area is referred to as the catacombs. It was never used by Washington, who wrote a provision into his Will that he be buried at Mount Vernon. Congress fought the Washington family for many years in an attempt to move his body to D.C. The tomb remains empty, but for quite some time, it housed Lincoln's Catafalque when it was not in use (a catafalque is a raised dias covered in fabric, in this case black, used to display a coffin at a funeral). The catafalque was built when Lincoln's body was set to lay in state in the Capitol. The same catafalque is used today whenever late Presidents or congresspeople are set to lie in state in the Capitol.


	5. November 21, 1861

**November 21, 1861**

**Letter from Sir Arthur Kirkland in London to Matthew Williams in Quebec**

* * *

My Dearest Matthew,

As I always do, I will begin by apologizing for paucity of my letters this summer. Parliament has been busier than usual this August, and that's to say nothing of India or Australia. I shan't bore you with the details, lest my migraine migrate across the Atlantic and afflict you, too. I know you have more than enough on your mind without my kvetching.

Before I say any more, I must first impart upon you the great appreciation I have for your thoughts and your willingness to speak your mind. You have always had such a lovely way with words, ever since you were a boy. It is true that Mister Jones and I may never enjoy a positive relationship in this lifetime, but I know I will never separate you from your brother, and have no wish to do so. Likewise, I doubt I shall ever fully divest myself of my worry for him, though I admit most days that worry is not so much for his person, but for his penchant to spread guns and controversy wherever he goes. Unfortunately, I have had little news of him, and what little I have is, as I said, wrapped in controversy.

If the news has not yet reached Quebec, I'm sure it will soon. Two weeks ago, the United States Navy intercepted and boarded a vessel—MY vessel—the _HMS Trent,_ and removed—more like kidnapped—two Confederate officers. It was a mail packet, Matthew, a bloody mail packet! The Confederates were bound for London and later Paris, I think, attempting to woo Europe to their so-called righteous cause. All eloquence escapes me. The United States has infringed on the sanctity of neutrality, of naval law, of national honor. And all for what? To confiscate a couple of rebels who seek to throw away weeks of their lives in a pursuit of international recognition?

I'm almost tempted to side with the Confederacy and their kidnapped officers. This damn war is hurting our trade, and it's bound to get worse. The markets in Lancashire have already plunged into chaos with no cotton to feed the mills. The poorest families are already going hungry. If the Union blockade continues, Manchester will starve. It already wounds me, a sore shoulder I cannot shake. And yet, here I sit writing to you, taking up no quarrel with the Union or its chokehold on the Confederacy's exports, because I still hold a modicum of respect for naval law and the concept of neutrality. The only reason we've had any contact with Confederate officers is to ensure the Confederacy respects the Declaration of Paris. It has no bearing on the United States whatsoever. What gives the them the right to flaunt international pacts to prevent two men from speaking to me, to Francis? What are they so afraid of, that the Confederates would appear before the King? Before me? Who's to say I would listen? Who's to say they would receive any audience with anyone? They broke our trust on the grounds of a possibility, and a thin possibility at that.

I take no pleasure in saying this, Matthew, but the whole affair has become a true Controversy, and Parliament's displeasure here in London is reaching a fever pitch. Palmerston, my 'good friend' as you called him, is a friend of the Confederacy, and every day inches further towards the belief that cotton is more valuable than neutrality.

Should the United States issue an apology, I anticipate this entire Affair will disappear into tomorrow's news, but Lincoln seems resolute in his silence. I must assume he is bitter that we've named the Confederacy a Belligerent in the war, but such childlike grudge-holding is pointless. Negotiating with the Confederates over the Declaration of Paris is an economic necessity, neutrality or not. The Americans have construed our desperation for transatlantic trade as accomplice to the Confederate cause. If Lincoln cannot comprehend the difference between the two, I have nothing left to say to him.

It may surprise you, but I have received an apology from Alfred. It was horrendously short, but so well written it makes me wonder who helped him, or else where he finds the time to compose letters, what with the war. He seemed genuinely surprised and mortified by the entire offense, and while I appreciate his wish to make amends, he cannot change the fact that his President remains silent.

Before you ask, Alfred's letter contained no personal news, and I can only say that I find this as equally vexing as I'm sure you do. I have been hounding my ambassadors for months for any news, any word about Alfred and absolutely no one has any idea where the boy is. Whether he is on the battlefield or standing by Lincoln's side, no one can say. His letter was the most political and dispassionate dispatch I've received from him since before '76. It makes me almost more furious than if he'd said nothing. The worry he has caused you alone is worth more than the postage it took to send his letter to me, let alone the worry he has caused the rest of the world.

I do not know what else to say. I am still too furious to think clearly. I hope, I pray that this affair will not escalate to war. I have seen far worse transgressions dissolve overnight, but I have seen wars emerge from far less. I cannot say with any measure of certainty what this will mean for your brother, or for you. I must ask, however, that you search your own mind and steel your emotions against darker eventualities. We will stay neutral as long as we are possibly able, but I must ask that you fortify your borders and find whatever able-bodied men your colonies have to offer. You will be receiving Her Majesty's call to arms within the fortnight. I pray it is an exercise and nothing more. God only knows Alfred ought to have larger concerns at the present time.

If you hear from Alfred, tell me. I will do the same for you.

I am sorry to burden you with such tumultuous considerations, but I must ask you to take up my mantle in the New World, where I cannot be present with you. When all of this unpleasantness is over, I should very much like for you to visit London. Call me a sentimental old fool, but this Empire is never wanting for squalls, wars, and cantankerous old men, and your presence is ever a balm on my worry. Take care, Matthew.

Your Devoted Older Brother,

Arthur Kirkland, GBE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. August 1861 was an especially busy legislative season for the 18th Parliament of Great Britain, and they passed many important Acts, including many laws codifying the laws around Forgery, Larceny, Criminal Damage, as well as the Age of Consent, among others.
> 
> 2\. The Trent Affair is exactly as it is described here: A British mail packet, the HMS Trent (a moderately sized ship built to ship postage, passengers, etc across the ocean) was intercepted by the USS San Jacinto, a frigate. The US Navy seized and removed two passengers who happened to be Confederate officers, James Murray Mason and John Slidell. The two were headed for Europe, specifically to Britain and France, where they hoped to plead the case of the Confederacy and gain international support. Lincoln never apologized for the event. The whole snafu was eventually resolved peacefully over December and January, but remains one of the most tense moments between the United States and Britain during the American Civil war. For this reason, it is the topic of some conversation in circles of alternate history, because for a month or so, it looked like the British Empire, at the height of its power, might actually throw its weight behind the Confederate States of America. And yes, it did compel Britain to strengthen it's military forces in Canada, just in case.
> 
> 3\. The American Civil War was disastrous for the textile markets around Europe, due to the Union blockade against Southern exports of cotton. In England specifically, this led to the Lancashire Cotton Famine of 1861-1865, which was an economic depression that led to low employment and in many cases, food shortages amongst worker populations, especially in the county of Lancashire where textile production was the primary industry.
> 
> 4\. The Declaration of Paris, or rather the Paris Declaration Respecting Maritime Law, was an 1856 diplomatic policy adopted by 55 nations (althought the United States did not agree to the original Declaration, they claimed they would respect the Declaration during the Civil War) that aimed to stop the practice of privateering, and protect laws of diplomatic neutrality at sea during times of war.


	6. December 10, 1861

**December 10, 1861**

**Letter from Matthew Williams in Quebec to Alfred Jones in Washington, D.C.**

* * *

My Dearest Brother,

Please accept my sincerest apologies for my unsteady handwriting. My hand is cramped from copying out this letter so many times, but I know not what else I can do to ensure that it arrives to you safely. I have not had any word of you in nearly a year, and no one seems to know where you are, even those to whom you've written. Some speculate that you are in Washington, others claim you are fighting in the South. Just last week, one of my ministers thought he saw you on a train in New Hampshire. I am sending a copy of this letter to each of your addresses that I know, in the hopes that one of them might make it to your desk so that you may read it and reply.

Please know, brother, that I would never go to such lengths to reach you but for my deep and fervent care for you. I do not do so out of frustration, or anger, or whatever other emotions you think Arthur Kirkland has told me to feel towards you. More than anything, I worry for you and your wellbeing, and being without word from you for so long after a previous stretch of unbroken correspondence has infected my heart with such worry I have not known since you rebelled against the Crown. Isn't it funny how time flies so quickly? I was so much smaller than you, then. I know I'll probably be a little smaller than you always, but I hope you'll hear me as something of an equal when I ask you to please, tell me how you are and how you are managing in this dreadful war.

I write to you now out of selfish affection, but I would be remiss if I did not mention the recent Events which have, I heard, triggered significant distress between yourself and Arthur. I understand from him that you have apologized over the matter of the _HMS Trent,_ and I will thank you for it on his behalf. I know Arthur seems unaffected by your letter—he spent several lines lauding its pristine composition, by the way—but please know that he was deeply touched by the gesture. The only reason he holds his tongue to you is because of the humans. The matter is now between his Prime Minister, your President, and their ambassadors. I have not yet met Mr. Lincoln, but I do hope he's a nicer man than Lord Palmerston. Arthur doesn't much like Palmerston either, though of course he can't say it. You mustn't tell Arthur I told you so. Palmerston is fond of this Confederacy against which you war in the South. I can tell that Arthur, despite all his attempts to sound neutral in his letters, is not.

You mustn't tell Arthur I told you any of that, either.

I know you must agonize over the British response to this war, to our apparent support of the Confederate rebels. I know also that you must've had word that the border has been fortified on my side by order of Her Majesty. However, in the midst of these bizarre times between us, it is my only and dearest wish for you to remember that Canada is, while British in law, quite resolved to make up its own mind. The British may tilt their hand towards the South, but my colonies' support of the Union is overwhelming and resolute. I urge you therefore to not view me or my people with hostility even as London makes such sluggish reassurances from afar. Do not read my pleas with the hardened eyes of a diplomat. Forgive Arthur for his missteps, if you are able. I love you, Alfred, and it is my dearest wish to avoid conflict with you. You and I have shared enough scuffles to satisfy me for another many centuries. My armies answer to European whims because they must, but out here alone on our side of the ocean, I cannot imagine going to war with you, not again.

If I know you (and I do), by now you are probably rolling your eyes to heaven upon reading such sentimentality pouring off of my pen. Under normal stars I would not blame you, but hopefully my uncharacteristic saccharinity communicates how deeply your silence continues to affect me. Wintertime in Quebec is dark, and the nights offer me nothing but time to imagine what has become of you in this last hellish year. I pray only that you are well, and staying alive as often as you are able.

Amid the dozen or so letters I'm scattering about your states, to your townhome in Washington I am also including two small tokens of my affection. The maple candy is tapped from my homestead some miles outside of Quebec (you visited once, I think, just after the turn of the century. I've expanded it quite a bit since then! You should come visit.) The star mold seemed appropriate for you, and I hope you will enjoy. Share one with Lincoln, if you get the chance, and do let me know how he likes it. The book, _L'influence d'un livre_ , is not entirely new (it's been nearly twenty-five years since it was published), but I don't think it's yet caught on on your side of the border. It is a lovely little piece of satire about gold, alchemy, and romance: all things I thought might appeal to you. I've been trying to get Arthur to read it for years, now, but you know how he is with French. Tu n'apprends pas à un vieux singe à faire des grimaces, et Arthur est le plus âgé de tous.

I hope you will receive these gifts before Christmas, or else whenever next you visit Washington. Whenever that may be, I hope they find you well. Happy Christmas, Alfred. I miss you and your exuberant way of writing more than I can say.

Your Overly-Sentimental and Steadfast Brother,

Matthew Williams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical / Language Notes:
> 
> 1\. As has been discussed, the Trent Affair created massive tensions between the U.S. and the British Empire for the better part of a year (mid 1861 to early 1862). During this time, Britain more or less indicated that it was liable to side with the Confederacy, a threat which the U.S. made very clear would spark a war between the U.S. and Britain. During the height of these tensions (Late 1861) there were very serious fears that, should war break out between Britain and the U.S., the Union would surge north and annex Canada. In this context, Matthew's desire to see Alfred and Arthur reconciled to each other is not just a brotherly concern, but a very serious matter of personal safety.
> 
> 2\. L'influence d'un livre, or The Influence of a Book, is a 1837 novel by Philippe Aubert de Gaspé, Jr. It is regarded as the first French Canadian novel, and is generally regarded as a satire of spiritual poverty in Québec. It retells the story of Charles Amand's quest for gold, his attempts at alchemy, magic, and other things.
> 
> 3\. Tu n'apprends pas à un vieux singe à faire des grimaces, et Arthur est le plus âgé de tous. Translates to "You don't teach an old monkey to make faces, and Arthur is the oldest of them all". ("Teach an old monkey to make faces" is the literal translation of a French idiom bearing the same meaning as the English "You can't teach an old dog new tricks").


	7. February 3, 1862

**February 3, 1862**

**Alfred Jones in Washington D.C. to Matthew Williams in Quebec**

* * *

Dear Mattie,

If I had an entire ream of paper and a barrel of ink with which to write, I could never write enough letters to make up for the worry I've caused you. I'm so very sorry, and hope you can forgive me for burdening your thoughts. Unfortunately, I have very little paper to my name now, so I apologize in advance for what I'm sure is a very poorly-written letter. I shall blame Arthur's _Trent_ for eating up all the drafting paper I had to compose such a "pristine" apology. In case he has asked, please inform him that no, no one helped me to write it. I knew he would assume so as soon as I pasted the stamps on.

I was quite surprised to have received so many letters from you, some dating back months. They've not given me- that is, the Post Office has been under considerable strain here in Washington for about a year now. Davis—the so-styled President of the Confederates—seduced nearly all of D.C.'s postmen into defecting to the South, and they took all their damn records with them. It's been a nightmare getting things up and running again, and Lincoln's Postmaster is a real piece of work, from what they've told me. The fact that my letter to Arthur even made it off the coast is news to me. I'm grateful he received it. I hope he chokes on it.

I am glad the entire hullabaloo with the _Trent_ has resolved itself, and I would like to forgive Arthur, and I truly mean that, no matter what you think of me. However, Britain has single-handedly turned a rebellion into a full-scale war by recognizing the Confederacy as a belligerent. They have made him- them- that is, the Confederacy, more powerful than he- they would have been otherwise. Arthur did not start this war, I know that, but he sure as hell hasn't made it any easier for me. The Confederates are out there begging for his support, and he's giving them hope, which they're using to fuel battle after vicious battle, and my men are bleeding out by the thousands every day.

I'm afraid there is little personal news I'm at liberty to share, that which I have is both dull and dreadful. I am not fighting; I've not been allowed. Because of the nature of the war, Congress deemed it necessary to keep me in cust- out of the way until things die down. I long to be with my men, to support Lincoln and his Generals at the front, but have been expressly forbidden from doing so. Even so, far away from the fighting though I may be, my body finds a way to join the casualties. Every tooth, eyelash, and toenail seems determined to take its turn on a never-ending orbit of aches and pains that accost me each day. I do not believe you've been in a war of this scale in some time, or perhaps ever, and I thank God for it. These new machines the humans have devised to kill each other, they are true horrors. Even if I cannot see them in action, I can feel them.

One small balm to my daily trials have been your letters, which I am still sorting through. Your generous gift of the maple candy and the book did indeed reach me intact, though the candy did not remain so for long. I shared some with President Lincoln, who passed some on to his family. Lincoln himself has confessed he was not positive he enjoyed the texture, but assures me his wife and children adored it. In fact, he's recently complained to me that Tad, his youngest, has been asking him for weeks now if they might travel to Canada solely to tap a maple tree there. (I quipped that we have our own in Vermont. I did not mention that you've been perfecting your recipe for nigh two hundred years and that you refuse to share it with me, because I am a decent sort of brother and would hate to cast you as a villain). The book was enjoyable; you must teach me sometime about what you've done to the French language, there were portions I did not quite understand.

Speaking of French, if you or Arthur have any contact with Francis, tell him to keep well away from the Southerners and their so called "ambassadors". The mess he's making in Mexico has the rebels cozying up to any Frenchman they think might be looking for their next great international investment, and so help me if any of them so much as look at Texas, I'll—

I'm sorry. I told you this letter would be ill-composed. I don't mean to be short with you. As I've been causing you innumerable worries, so I have been causing myself immeasurable stress. It continues to manifest itself in ways I never before imagined. Don't ever get into a civil war, Mattie, and if you do…

But you won't. You're far better than I, in that regard. Arthur is a very lucky man to have you at his side, I hope he realizes that. I miss you terribly. I am running out of paper. Thank you for the gifts. God keep you. I do not know when I can next write. My time is not my own.

With many apologies and much love,

Your Brother Alfred Jones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. In June 1861, the Confederate States' Postmaster, John H. Reagan, sent out letters by courier to all the heads of the U.S. Post Office in Washington, D.C., with an invitation for all those of southern heritage or with whom the southern cause resonated to abandon their posts and join the Confederate States Postal Service. Nearly all of the officers took him up on the offer (it is important to remember, the District of Columbia is sandwiched in between Virginia and Maryland, a Confederate and a Union state, respectively. D.C. was both the U.S. Capital and a border region between the North and South). However, they did not only abandon their jobs and defect to the south—they also took receipt books, maps, account ledgers, and route information with them. For this stunt, Reagan became known as "the man who stole the U.S. Post Office".
> 
> 2\. Meanwhile, Lincoln's Postmaster, Montgomery Blair, was generally regarded as a stubborn, opinionated, and overall unpleasant man: just the type of man, Lincoln thought, it might take to fight the Confederate States' opposing office.
> 
> 3\. Tad, Lincoln's youngest son, was actually called Theodore. His nickname, Tad, was given to him by Lincoln himself, who observed that he was "as wiggly as a tadpole" when he was a baby. This has no historic bearing on the story, but I think it's precious.
> 
> 4\. Vermont is the state responsible for the most maple syrup production in the United States
> 
> 5\. At the same time the United States was busy with its Civil War, France was busy installing an Austrian archduke as the new emperor of Mexico. No, really. Known as the Second French intervention in Mexico, or the Second Franco-Mexican War, or the Mexican Adventure, this was an ultimately successful attempt by Napoleon III to establish a European-style monarchy in Mexico that was subservient to the French Empire. It started off because of some boring and complicated concerns around loans, and originally France invaded Mexico in 1861 with the help of Britain and Spain to protect trade interests, but once the other nations realized France was after land, silver, and power, they quietly bowed out, made peace negotiations with Mexico, and went on their merry ways. France would eventually install the Austrian archduke Maximilian von Habsburg as Emperor of Mexico, a title which he would retain until 1867, when Mexico (with a little help from a post-war United States) would kick out the French. I've probably got a few details wrong here, but that's the jist! So, as far as Alfred's concerns: basically, he sees that France is already in North America stirring the pot with all the wealth, power, and influence of Napoleon III, and he's worried that so close to Mexico, the Confederates might try to sidle up to France and convince them to help them out. This was a genuine concern for the Union at the time, though it should be pointed out, they were far more concerned about British recognition of the Confederacy, which was always more likely than French recognition.


	8. July 5, 1862

**July 5, 1862**

**? in Washington, D.C. to Arthur Kirkland in London**

* * *

Dear Sir Arthur Kirkland,

One of the greatest regrets I have in this past year is that in all the turmoil of the present age, (which has, I understand, spread even so far to your side of the Atlantic) I have not, since the revelatory new beginnings of my person, had the chance to meet with you in person. It is therefore quite presumptuous and even rude of me to be sending you this missive now, and I have agonized over the matter for some weeks. For this breach in etiquette, I implore you to accept my sincerest apologies and regrets. Should I have the opportunity, I should love nothing more than to travel to London and make a proper introduction, but as I'm sure you're aware, current circumstances make this impossible.

In my absence, I have every confidence that Messrs. Mason and Slidell have made a proper representation of me and my people, and of our vision for the future. You and your people are, of course, at the forefront of that vision, as our preeminent trading partner. The British Empire has been our chief partner for decades, and even as the world shifts in wonderful new ways, I see no reason for this to end. On the contrary, it is my hope that our bond may grow stronger with time. Every day, shipping time from Charleston to Southampton grows shorter. Perhaps one day, cotton and tobacco may reach across the Atlantic in less than a week: what a world it would be! I look forward to such a future with desperation, for at the present hour, we are both shackled to the dark reality that is the United States and their disastrous blockade.

Though it pains me, I must abandon pretense and make my point bluntly. The Confederate States and our brothers in the British Empire are linked by economic ties too strong for the Union to sever. However, every day the blockade is allowed to continue is another day where our people—yours as well as mine—go hungry. For every ship that manages to slip past these tyrants' hands, ten more are stopped, and fifty more kept ashore for fear of the Union's guns. It cannot continue. One of my men recently shared with me a newspaper shipped to him from his cousin in Lancashire, where he worked in a textile factory up until recently. My heart was moved to tears for the Englishmen and their families—our very own blood relatives—who now must go without food because of the United States' treachery. The blockade must end, for both of us.

While our spirits burn brightly in concert with the sentiments of our brethren across Europe, I am sure you are aware that we are, at present, at some disadvantage in ships, arms, and armaments. Our Navy is capable and fierce, but too few in number to take on the sheer size of the Union fleet. There is no one in the entire world, I expect, who understands the importance of naval potency than you, Sir. I have the understanding from one Commander James Bulloch that there is a ship newly launched to the River Mersey of which I have you to thank. Upon seeing the designs for the ship I was immeasurably heartened, and I feel certain that it will be a boon to my Navy. I am writing to ask sir, if I have any reason to hope it will not be the last such boon I might receive from my dear friends across the water.

The British Empire's neutrality in this ongoing conflict is of course a natural choice; I scarcely see how you could have positioned yourself otherwise in any circumstance. However, as shortages reign and the Union tightens its fist, I hope that, whether officially or through quieter means such as that now underway at Birkenhead, you might help me to end our misery sooner rather than later. When the unpleasantness of the present day is over and done, I look forward to returning to Europe to prove myself anew as a worthy trade partner and, I hope, a diplomatic ally. When I do, I hope you shall not hold my appearance against me; it is a face you have seen many times before, but I assure you, I am of a heart and mind renewed, and a spirit envigored by God. I fear I lost myself some time ago, but after a long, meandering path, I have found myself and my name in the heart of Virginia, that land on which we first knew each other so many years ago.

With deepest respect and admiration,

Andrew Fitzhugh Jones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. I believe we've already discussed the Union Blockade, so I will not wax poetic about it here, but a quick reminder that the Union was blocking any and all shipping to and from Southern ports. The Confederate Navy was not big enough to attempt to return the favor. Some ships did manage to sneak through, but the vast majority were scared off by the mere thought of coming up against union warships.
> 
> 2\. Mason and Slidell are the men appointed by Davis to represent the CSA to the United Kingdom. They are, incidentally, the same Mason and Slidell that were captured by Union officers off of the RMS Trent. They represented the CSA to England for the duration of the CSA's existence.
> 
> 3\. The ship on the River Mersey, or in Birkenside, to which Alfred—er, Andrew is referring is none other that the CSS Alabama, which was a Confederate screw sloop-of-war that was, in fact, manufactured in England. Because England was neutral, there were laws forbidding shipbuilders from building arms, armaments, or other instruments of war for belligerents. However, there was a loophole, and the shipbuilders contracted by the Confederate Navy found it: if you build a ship that's made for canons, guns, and ammunition, and is made with reinforced decks that can hold the weight of those canon, but you don't actually install those weapons until you're out of British waters, it's all perfectly legal. So that's what they did. Known first as "hull number 290", this British-made gunless warship was launched on the 15th of May in 1862 under the name Enrica. It eventually quietly sailed out of Birkenhead on the 29th of July. A Union officer was actually in Southampton at the time, and was supposed to intercept the boat (which the Union was aware of) before it left British waters, but he failed in this endeavor. From there, the new ship met up with her Confederate captain and they sailed to the Caribbean, where they outfitted her with eight guns (one of them a 100-pound, 7-inch long rage pivot canon, YIKES) and initiated her into the fledgling Confederate States Navy.
> 
> 4\. The Commander James Bulloch mentioned is the Confederate officer who negotiated the manufacture of the Alabama. The actual contract was arranged by the Fraser Trenholm Company, which was a cotton broker in Liverpool that had ties to the Confederacy (surprise surprise.)


	9. July 29—August 1, 1862

**July 29, 1862**

**Telegraph from Sir Arthur Kirkland in London to Francis Bonnefoy in Paris**

* * *

FRANCIS=

URGENT. A. F. JONES UNSTABLE. DO NOT CONTACT. IF CONTACTED, DO NOT RESPOND.

IT IS WORSE THAN 1649.

LETTER TO FOLLOW=

ARTHUR

* * *

**August 1, 1862**

**Letter from Sir Arthur Kirkland in London to Francis Bonnefoy in Paris**

* * *

Dear Francis,

It has likely been an entire age since I last wrote to you outside the bounds of politics or petty diplomacy, and I find myself utterly unsure of what sort of civil niceties I ought to address to you at the beginning of a letter. You are likely to reprimand me for this, but I assure you I have not forgotten my sense of etiquette, only my composure. I hope you received my telegram this last Tuesday. I did not know if you would be at home, or still abroad. In any case, I can be nothing but short in my explanation because I am too shaken to do anything else. If you had told me eighty years ago that Alfred Jones would continue to infect me with such fervent anxiety so far into the new century, I would've shot myself in the head.

The Confederates have sent envoys to London multiple times now, and I know they've traveled to Paris as well. They seek to curry European favour to their cause, something too many of my aristocrats seem ready to grant them. To the present hour, I've been more than happy to ignore the confederates and the aristocrats both. My own Prime Minister is as keen as the gentry to resolve the American problem by supporting the Southern cause, but knows the price is yet too high to surrender our neutrality. I was resolved to wait out the envoys, the whispers, the grumbling of the Lords, and only pray Alfred and his president may bring a swift end to this war. However, I write to you now with an urgent warning regarding the American South and their appeals to the Continent—and to me.

I've had a letter from Alfred—or rather, a man with Alfred's hand, face, and name—who claims to represent the Confederacy. He calls himself Andrew, and he claims to know me. He wants ships, guns, and money with which to fund his navy that he might liberate the Atlantic from the Union Blockade. He wants me to provide him all of this, to forsake neutrality, oppose the United States, and ally with him. Implicit in this, of course, is his desire for me to abandon all relationship with Alfred himself. If he realizes that he and Alfred are one and the same, he was steadfast in ignoring the fact. Even thinking about it in such terms has shaken me more than I can say.

His handwriting is exactly like Alfred's. I compared their letters this morning. The whole matter has haunted me with unpleasant memories of my own civil war, and the bone-cracking turmoil of my younger years. I wrestled with my brothers more fiercely than I had in centuries before, and with myself, and with my kings and parliament, often to the point of death and back. Yet in the midst of madness, it never once crossed my mind to change my name. I was never so far gone that I did not know myself, yet I fear that is exactly what has happened in America.

I used to wonder if Alfred and Matthew had any more brothers or sisters. When he was very small, Alfred spoke to me of others; if he still remembers this, I cannot say. Do you remember if Matthew ever spoke of such things? I admit, upon hearing the news of the southern states' secession, I was curious if the world would not meet some new American phantom, some brother or sister who has heretofore eluded detection. There is, after all, so much we do not understand about that continent. Yet now I've met the answer to my curiosity, and he writes to me in the same hand I taught to hold a pen some two hundred years ago.

The American civil war is not like mine, nor like any that I can remember. When I was at war with myself, what had I to lose? A king, a government, a church. They were prizes of immeasurable value back then, but the scale of the present war in America turns my memories into pale ghosts. Should the Confederates prevail against the United States, Alfred will pay for it dearly. It is not only his government that will crumble, but his people, his lands, his treaties and trade. The very concept of the United States will buckle down the middle, broken in half by the scourge of human slavery. And should that happen, what will become of Alfred? Of his mind, his life? I can imagine the afflictions he faces now at war, but do not know how much worse they may become if the divisions of his people become permanent. My memories can take me far enough down such a path of consideration to know it will be more painful than anything he is prepared for. Oh, that Alfred would have another brother, more horrible, unpleasant, and callow than himself to write such adulatory letters to me now, then perhaps his mind would remain his own.

I fear my government will seek to give the Confederacy the support and recognition they seek, and for what? For King Cotton and the relief he might give to our hungry mills. Economy aside, it would be a horrible decision, and everyone who's head is not buried in his coffers (and his coffers, in turn, in American cotton) knows it. India and Egypt give us cotton while we wait. Impatience over the blockade will offer us nothing but trouble. To forsake the U.S. now is to trade in a famine of cotton for a famine of grain, and to engage in war against one of our most important trade allies. Who could have foreseen such a day, when the only thing I can do to preserve Alfred's life is to wear linen and feed corn to my goddamn sheep?

I must ask, Francis, in all naivety and hope, that you will resist whatever graces or promises this Andrew writes to you. I know I am in no place to ask this of you, but you and I are the primary targets of the Confederates' affections, and I fear if we do not unify in our resolve to remain neutral, Alfred will suffer the consequences personally.

You must think me the chief of all hypocrites, to be speaking of Alfred in such fond tones. I realize I have never been on the best of terms with Alfred and his Union, nor have I ever been on the best of terms with you, old friend, but please believe that it is my most earnest desire that the United States survive this abominable war and regain control of its southern territories. Alfred and I have, and I assume always will have considerable disagreements, but God as my witness I have never wished this hell upon him.

In earnestness,

Arthur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. An interesting note about the telegram: at this point in history, most telegrams in England (and in France) would have been delivered to the recipient handwritten, not printed. Printing telegraph machines were fewer in number and took special training to operate. However, the all-caps script helps visually distinguish it from, say, a letter, so I've opted to use it here. Also, the practice of using "=" to open and close a message is actually a very American thing, and is more common in the early 20th century, but I've brought it back here to, again, enhance the 'telegram' aesthetic, which is hard to convey in text alone. Also, "telegram" as a phrase is actually an Americanism! It emerged in the 1830s and 40s, shortly after the telegraph was introduced, and made its way across the Atlantic in the 1850s, to replace "telegraph" as a term for the message delivered ("telegraph" still referred to the actual machines).
> 
> 2\. Commentary on the plight of Europe re: cotton and American trade has been spoken of enough already, so I will not wax poetic. Suffice to say that Britain relied heavily on two exports from America: cotton from the south and grain (corn) in the north. The value of corn and other grains from America (as well as the precarious position of Canada) was one of the larger reasons why the British never intervened in the war.
> 
> 3\. France suffered quite similar woes to England because of the Union's blockade, so Arthur here is writing to Francis with a healthy measure of camaraderie. Also of note, England and France would have been on fairly amicable terms at this point in history, and had not fought with each other since 1815. Incidentally, to this day, 1815 is the last time France and England were at war. So you're reading the very early nascent stages of what will eventually become a cordial alliance.
> 
> 4\. During the American Civil War, while American cotton remained an unreliable import, Egypt's cotton trade boomed, and production of cotton in India rose by about 70%. (Not mentioned here was the cotton production in Brazil, which during this decade rose by 400%!)
> 
> 5\. England lived through multiple civil wars in quick succession in the 17th century. Capital "t" The English Civil War is actually a series of three civil wars from 1642-1651. The one Arthur is referring to here is the Second English Civil War. The war was obviously a very political matter, but was also, crucially, a religious war fought between Catholics and Protestants. 1649 was a particularly harsh year for our dear Arthur. His government was overthrown, the monarchy abolished, his king executed by beheading, and a Council of State installed in place of a monarchy. It was a time of unbelievable instability. This particular time would have been an odd time for Francis, too, because the king that England killed was married to a French princess. When the English king was beheaded, the son of this union was for a time declared as the King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland.


	10. August 6, 1862

**August 6, 1862**

**Letter from Francis Bonnefoy in Paris to Sir Arthur Kirkland in London**

* * *

Mon cher,

It has indeed been an age, or perhaps an age and one half, since you and I have written to one another outside the confines of human politics, a truth which makes me feel ancient and remorseful. Your sense of conversation is such fun to tease, shame on me for neglecting my own talents. Your letter was poorly written and short, and under different circumstances you are right in assuming I would harass you for it—I rarely overlook such an invitation, as you well know—but under today's sun, I find myself similarly ill-composed and I will not blame you in the slightest for your abandon.

I was, as it would happen, only just arrived in Paris when I received your telegram. I am not exaggerating when I say the staff were still unloading my luggage when the messenger boy arrived at my door, looking quite confused as to where to put himself. To think, I spent the last six months in Mexico, practically on Alfred's doorstep, and only now that I am thousands of kilometers away in Europe do I hear news of him. Your message seized my heart with fear, and I must reprimand you for taking so long to follow with your letter. In the interim, I have been beset by such palpitations as I've not known since before Napoleon's uncle introduced himself to me.

I assume you are skimming my letter, as you always do—you really must take time to relax, mon cher, and enjoy the finer things in life (my own very fine penmanship included). Therefore, I will interrupt myself before I write any more and assure you that France has no intention of becoming a bedfellow to these southern rebels. The starvation of cotton is of course a painful and frustrating truth, but it cannot be resolved by taking sides. Europe's only way out of this war is an absolute peace between the American north and south, and I doubt you or I could broker such a deal at present.

This being said, I confess that my aristocrats seem all too willing to warm the Confederates' bed, jumping in from Mexico or from across the Atlantic. Much like yours, their interests reside in their coffers: cotton, wine, brandy, and silk. Napoleon has been tight-lipped towards me regarding the issue, but has on more than one occasion asked if I've spoken with John Slidell. I do not know his plans on the matter, but I will be keeping a keen eye on the emperor, and will endeavor to warn you in advance of any declarations.

Your news of Alfred himself is harrowing, to say the least. You and I did not speak often during your civil war, from what I recall—and what I do recall involved you trying to cut off my head—but Alistair has told me stories that haunt me to this day. If Alfred's case is indeed more dire than yours, I should faint to imagine what horrors beset the boy. This 'Andrew' you've spoken to must be causing him considerable turmoil. We all knew a civil war was possible when he set out on this grand experiment last century, but I doubt any of us imagined it would be so violent.

Mattheiu never spoke to me of 'others', even when he was very small, but I am not surprised to hear that there were more. I wonder if any are yet left? You and I had many more brothers and sisters, once, but history is not kind to all of us equally. Alfred has always been the stronger of the twins; let us hope he remains strong enough to throw off whatever unwelcome demon has taken up residence in his mind. Should the South win, would "Andrew" replace him entirely? Would one of these 'others' replace him? Would he be compelled to live a double life? It does not bear comprehension.

I will not conclude this letter without leaving you a measure of hope, Angleterre. However, the hope I have to offer comes in the guise of a story you may find unpleasant. I am loath to dredge up the bad blood of yesteryear, but I pray it may remind you of the strength of notre cher Alfred. In the summer of 1780, when your own Lord Cornwallis was still routing the southern colonies, I was with Alfred and General Washington and mon cher Lafayette in the North, near New York. You may remember the devastation you wrought at the Battle of Camden in S. Carolina. All told, I believe it was the single bloodiest day for Alfred or his men, and even so far away, he was bedridden and miserable for an entire week, causing us no small amount of worry as we awaited news of tragedy. Though in unbelievable pain, Alfred insisted on joining Gen. Washington for his briefings each morning, forsaking crutches or chairs or other assistance. Upon hearing of the rout at Camden, he was on his feet and prepared to leave before anyone could tell him 'no'. You remember how slight of stature he was back then, and yet even as an invilid, he fought with the strength of ten men. It took myself and two of Washington's larger lieutenants to pick him up and haul him bodily back to his sickbed.

My point in all of this, Arthur, is to remind you exactly how strong Alfred is, when he puts his mind to it. The fact that someone so strong has been brought so low by this war is a warning to us all. If you are able, however, I would have you take heart in the strength you witnessed firsthand during his Revolution. If this 'Andrew' or the Confederacy should like to take Alfred's mind and body whole, it will be a challenge for the ages. Alfred will fight tooth and nail. We must trust that it will not be in vain.

Even so, by all indication this war is going to be a long one. We must take solace where we can, and pray that Alfred makes it through to the other side intact. No Americans will write to me, I think because of my business in Mexico. If you hear any other news of Alfred, I beg you to share. I worry for him. My thoughts are with you and your colonies as you seek to forestall whatever rash decisions your aristocratic leaders are dreaming up in their pipe dens. In this struggle, you and I find ourselves on equal footing, mon ami. Despite how I relish tormenting you, perhaps you may take some brief comfort in that.

Yours,

Francis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. You may be wondering why Francis here (and Arthur in the last chapter) are using such short greetings and signatures compared with letters in previous chapters. It is both improper and incredibly rude to address someone so simply in a letter, especially when they are someone of such stature. The answer is quite simply that they are very, very old friends, who, when speaking to each other in a personal sense, see no need to stand on ceremony. It is at once an insult to the other, and a sign of affection. This, I think, sums up their relationship.
> 
> 2\. "Napoleon's uncle" refers to Napoleon Bonaparte, who was the uncle of Napoleon III, who was, at the time of this letter, Emperor of France.
> 
> 3\. Though France and Britain had no actual agreement during this time on the American war, there was an informal understanding that France would not break their own neutrality without cooperation from the British. This was likely not a mutual sentiment, as Britain was the key European lynchpin in the tides of the American war, but Europe as a whole seemed hesitant to venture into the American conflict without outside cooperation.
> 
> 4\. Francis' mention that he does not think that peace can be brokered, as well as his mention that Napoleon III is interested in his thoughts on John Slidell (a confederate representative to Europe, you'll remember, he was the one to reach out to Paris) are both allusions to an attempt by the French to do just that. Though it will not be discussed directly in this story, France actually wanted to broker an armistice between the Union and Confederacy. Napoleon began discussions around this armistice idea with Britain and Russia in the latter months of 1862. In theory, the armistice would allow the Union blockade to stand down, trade to resume, and hopefully, would lead to a peaceful resolution of the war. However, both Britain and Russia disagreed with the plan, mostly because the U.S. made it clear they would never stand for such a thing, and it never came to fruition.
> 
> 5\. The Battle of Camden was a battle fought in August 1780 between the American Patriots and the British Empire in South Carolina. The battle was both a resounding victory for the British and, by all accounts, the single bloodiest day for the American Continental Army. American casualties were 1050 killed or wounded. By comparison, the British casualties were just 314 killed or wounded. This is an interesting event to keep in mind as we head into the bloodier years of the American Civil War. To this point in history, the bloodiest battle in the largest conflict in Alfred's history saw just over one thousand men dead or wounded. The Civil War, as many of you already know, was rather a different beast in this regard. The Civil War saw several battles that, in one or two days, killed more Americans than the entirety of the Revolutionary War.


	11. September 6, 1862

**September 6, 1862**

**Letter from Sir Arthur Kirkland in London to Matthew Williams in Quebec**

* * *

My dearest Matthew,

I hope this letter finds you well. By the time you receive it, I'm sure the seasons in Quebec will have turned solidly towards Autumn, a time I know you cherish and loathe in equal measures. I hear from the governor that this year's harvest has been full and largely unspoiled—it is no small feat, and I congratulate you for this victory in such dark times. I enjoyed seeing your personal gardens outside the city last I visited, and hope your homestead has shared in your countrymen's good fortune this year. I must take a selfish moment to ask that, should you have room in your cellars, you set aside a case of McIntosh apples for me. If you are willing to indulge me even further, I would very much like a cutting of the same tree. I've three young apple trees on my property in Somerset that are now just the right size for grafting. I'm afraid I've spoken high praise of your apples to the gentlemen of Parliament, and not a few have reprimanded me for bloviating about such confections when I have none to share.

I should like nothing more than to spend the rest of this letter imparting news of my own orchards—McIntoshes I have not, but I daresay this years' first scrumpy has been particularly good, and strong too, thank God—but unfortunately my main reason for writing to you is not cider, but something far more grave. It is with neither relish nor pleasure that I remind you of your brother's war, and the potential threat it poses to the Empire. I know it is a constant source of worry for you as well as your governors, just as it is for me in London.

You may have heard, whether by maritime rumor or some other propaganda, that the Confederates have successfully courted Victoria and her government and lured her into supporting their rebellion, but I reassure you these notions are unequivocally false. Lord Palmerston has made very clear his intention to stay neutral in the conflict, so long as it is earthly possible.

However, I must regretfully confirm another rumor that you may have heard, that an English shipwright manufactured one of the Confederacy's newest cruisers. She left British waters as the _Enrica,_ but has been for the last few months terrorizing the Azores as the _C.S.S. Alabama,_ a thorn in the side of Union merchants and a blight on my own efforts for complete neutrality. In equal measure of regret, I must confide that your brother is, apparently, aware of the ship's origin. Should retaliation cross his mind, it is not impossible that he choose to inflict his ire upon you. Your proximity to him is, as it ever has been, a potential danger. This uncomfortable truth forms the crux of my letter to you.

It cannot have escaped your imagination why the Empire has so long remained neutral in the American war. If it were I alone affected, Palmerston would have no doubt sent me across the Atlantic, musket in hand, to fight your cantankerous brother upon the first whiff of a blockade. However, there is considerable worry here in London that, should we give even the illusion of British support for the Confederacy, the United States will turn its eyes northward and violate your border. I realize you and Alfred have shared close and amicable relations for many decades, but I must remind you how war changes nations even more profoundly than men. Alfred is not himself, and may not regain himself for some time. I must ask, though I know it is a herculean task, that you set aside your feelings for your brother and prepare yourself for imminent invasion. Should the United States seek to annex Canada or any of our other colonies while still at war with the Confederates, I fear not only for your own safety, but the safety of whatever men Lincoln will seek to conscript from your undepleted barracks.

While you call your own men to arms and fortify where you can, I must ask that you keep your own person away from all things military. Neutrality is as much a show as it is a diplomatic condition, and you being as far away from the fighting as possible will keep your peoples' minds turned away from war. I was heartened to hear of the incorporation of the city Victoria on your western coastline on Vancouver Island. Do your trains yet reach so far west? I imagine the oncoming winter would be made more tolerable by Pacific coastal winds. I know Gov. Douglas has recently set aside a handsome estate for you there, though I do not know if you've yet had an opportunity to visit. You will have to tell me if the prospectors are as numerous as I've heard.

It would put my old heart considerably at ease to know that you were doing all you can to keep yourself—and the Empire—from becoming the next casualty of your brother's self-destruction. I cannot impart how sorry I am for asking so much of your heart and spirit once more. I am ever-thankful for you, and hope you may enjoy these first days of harvest in wealth and plenty.

Your Ever-Devoted Brother,

Arthur Kirkland, GBE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. McIntosh is the name of an apple variety developed and made popular in eastern Canada in the early 19th century, and is now the national apple of Canada (yup, that's a thing!). Since apple varieties cannot be propagated from seeds, and must be grafted or rooted from cuttings, Arthur here is asking Matthew for a bit of his own McIntosh tree so he can grow McIntosh apples in England. And yes, the McIntosh apple is in fact the inspiration for the name of the modern computer company!
> 
> 2\. "Scrumpy" is a term that probably didn't show up in the English language until about 1904, but I've adopted the term here because it means something very specific to which Arthur is referring. (Hard) apple cider has been a popular drink in England for centuries, but the southwest of England is known for a particular kind of apple cider that is now called scrumpy. Compared to the more refined "export" varieties of cider manufactured at the same time, scrumpy was and is simple, dry, less sweet, and usually still (not carbonated). These roughly-made farmhouse ciders were both easy to make and also usually a great deal stronger alcoholically than the ciders sold at market. If you're ever in the southwest of England (and of drinking age), I strongly recommend trying it! It's delicious.
> 
> 3\. The C.S.S. Alabama has been discussed already, but just a note here to add that for the first two months of its existence as the Alabama, this ship stayed closer to Europe than America. The Azores are an archipelago of islands controlled by Portugal that are west and to the south of the Iberian peninsula. As a bird flies, they are roughly ⅓ the way from Europe to North America. The Alabama did not cross the Atlantic until a bit later. When it did, it arrived and wrought havoc upon the coasts of New England.
> 
> 4\. Yup, one of the reasons England stayed neutral was, in fact, Canada! There was considerable fear that the Americans would attempt to annex Canada. The fear of American annexation of Canada is actually arguably one of the biggest external factors in Canadian history, and would not end with the end of the civil war. It was not until the early 20th century when fears of American annexation subsided.
> 
> 5\. British Columbia was a brand new colony at this point, founded in 1858 and largely fueled by the booming Gold Rush there at the same time. Though the Colony of Vancouver Island was at the time a separate entity, they were managed by the same shrewd governor, James Douglas. The city of Victoria, which today is the capital city of BC, was incorporated as a city in August 1862.


	12. September 16, 1862

**September 16, 1862**

**Montreal, Grand Trunk Railway station**

* * *

The train platform was disorienting and loud. People bustled all around, footmen and carts of luggage jockeying for a path through the masses, women's skirts confusing his view of the ground as much as the billowing clouds of steam. A train whistle shouted too close for comfort, drowning out whatever Mr. Martins was trying to say to him.

"-ure this is all you need, sir?" Martins fussed, bushy eyebrows drawn in a grandfatherly air of concern.

"Quite sure, Theo, thank you," Matthew smiled. Matthew had known the dutiful butler since he was born. Martins' father and grandfather had served in the same role before him. Martins had gone bald in his 20s and grey in his 30s, and the whole time Matthew had been a constant presence in his life. Now old and grey, Mr. Theodore Martins did not seem appeased by the colony's assurances, and looked disheartedly down at the single small suitcase Matthew was taking with him. "Trust me," Matthew insisted, smiling in the quiet, winning way that kept him in the good graces of everyone he knew. "I'll be fine, Theo. If somehow I'm not, you'll be the first to know, I promise." This seemed to calm Martins' nerves, and he smiled.

"Of course, sir. Will you be requiring anything else before you go?" Theo was always hesitant to leave his side. Matthew chuckled.

"I think I'll manage. Now get back home to your lovely wife—you're a lucky man to have her and her marvelous cooking waiting for you." Steam hissed louder than a roaring storm as a new train pulled into the station. Matthew had to shout above the noise to say: "And tell her I said _bonjour!_ Next you have your daughters 'round, you must tell me and I'll have everyone over for tea."

"Anette would like that, sir," Theo smiled despite himself, deep laughter lines creasing his face. He tipped his hat. "Safe travels, sir. Telegram me as soon as you're back."

"Of course, Theo. Farewell!"

And then, he was off. Locomotive travel was no longer a novelty, but the wonder had yet to wear off for Matthew, who'd spent his most formative years trudging through lakes and snow on foot, freezing and often alone in the wilderness. The mighty steel of the Grand Trunk had tamed much of the wilderness of his childhood home, and the treacherous lakes and hills he'd mapped over the trials of his infancy now passed by as harmlessly as a summer's day. He found a lonesome carriage car and settled in by the window to watch the colorful autumn forests pass by in a blur. It was going to be a taxing journey, and he was determined to enjoy whatever peace he could find while he could.

"Excuse me," said someone, and Matthew turned. Three men were standing in the doorway of the car, peaking in with polite restraint. Two looked to be poor men, perhaps dock workers or tradesmen, but the one speaking looked like a middle class boy left on his own for the first time. "Is anyone sitting in here?" he asked timidly.

"No," Matthew said, scooting closer to the window to make room. "Please, come in."

The three gratefully settled in and took off their hats, the two poorer men stretching out to fill the space of the cabin.

"Train is packed full today," said one with a huff, doffing his cap to rub at his short hair, which looked sweaty.

"I hear they've all been so," said the middle-class boy. "Quite amazing, when you consider. I thought everyone would be too scared!"

"Well it's not as though we're going to Virginia," quipped the sweaty man, pulling his cap back on. "Yet," he added, and the other two men chuckled nervously. The third man, who'd been quiet up until then, turned to Matthew.

"John Grenier," he extended his hand. "Thanks again for giving us a seat; the ladies next door weren't to keen on our company,"

"Your smell, at least," said the capped man.

"Matthew Williams," the colony replied, giving John's hand a firm shake and smiling at the joke. The capped man introduced himself simply as "Archie", while the middle-class boy was called Abel Bouchard. Matthew glanced between the three men, who seemed to know each other but looked out of place at the others' sides. "Are you _planning_ on going to Virginia?" he asked.

"Or somewhere thereabouts," replied the middle-class boy. "Wherever we're sent, I suppose." It took Matthew a few moments to put it together.

"You're enlisting?" He realized aloud, sounding surprised. "In the States?"

"Union army," smiled Abel. "My sister's husband is American. They have a huge farm down in New York. He and their eldest joined up, and I… well. I don't have anyone but her. Reggie's going to inherit the business, and I couldn't sit around and do nothing while my sister waits around all miserable. If the rebels won't go home and leave us some peace, I'll thought I'd send them home myself."

"And here I was just doing it for money," quipped John. Archie cackled, and Abel blushed.

"That's very noble of you," Matthew ventured. He glanced at Archie. "And what of you, sir?"

"He's sweet on a Yankee girl," John jibed. "Already bought her a handsome acreage and set to marry her first chance he gets, isn't that right?" Behind a few days' worth of stubble, Archie blushed.

"Ah, well," he scratched the back of his neck bashfully. "We were supposed to get married last year, but… things happened, and… anyway, I can't rightly move there for her when we don't know how long 'there' will _be_ there, eh? So…" he smiled despite himself. "Yeah, I'm doin' it for her."

"I'm sure she's very proud of you," Matthew offered. Archie looked down at this lap, and spoke quietly enough that Matthew wasn't sure he was meant to hear:

"She doesn't actually know."

Matthew wasn't sure what to say to that, so he said nothing at all.

The train trundled along until the tracks beneath them set a steady and hypnotizing rhythm, rocking like a baby's crib until all four men were lulled half asleep. The sun set, and a trolley came 'round to offer light dinner fare. After some uncharted time, the door at the front of the carriage opened and an attendant stepped in with a booming voice.

"New York City," He crowed, loud enough to make the entire rail car jump. "Next stop, New York city." He repeated this cry several times as he marched down the hallway, until he at last departed for the next sleepy car. The open door gave the carriage an amplified listen to the tracks before it slammed shut and quiet prevailed.

"Well chaps," said Abel, rubbing palms over his trousers in a nervous way, "that'll be us, then."

"Good luck to you all," Matthew said. "New York is quite nice this time of year, I hate to be missing it." This seemed to give the others pause.

"What," said John, sounding surprised, "you're not stopping there, too?"

"No," Matthew smiled. "Going a bit further south, actually."

The others exchanged glances. There was very little south of Manhattan Island that would interest any Canadian, certainly those travelling alone, certainly those who were young and able-bodied as like Matthew, unless—

"You're not joining up with the rebs, are you?" John asked darkly.

"No," Matthew snapped, mortified. "God, no. My-" the words caught in his throat. "My brother is an American. In the Union. I'm going to join him."

"Oh?" Abel leaned toward Matthew, all wide eyes and innocence, drawn to the prospect of a like-minded soul. "Where?" He asked. Matthew swallowed.

"Washington D.C.," he said.

John let out a low whistle.

"You've got guts, Mr. Williams," the man said, appraising Matthew with newfound regard and, also, a great deal of pity. "I'll give you that. Best of luck to you—and to your brother."

"Thank you."

"Maybe we'll see you again," Abel spoke up with a shaky smile. "In Virginia, perhaps, giving those rebels a what-for."

"Yes," Matthew said noncommittally. He could not possibly travel to Virginia. Arthur was going to kill him if he ever learned about this trip at all, but if he heard he'd made it to _Virginia,_ he'd be put into house arrest for two decades, at least. The train had begun to slow down to a stop, whistle blaring and brakes creaking.

"You boys take care of yourselves," Matthew said, and meant it. He'd known that his people were joining up in the Union Army, the Navy as well, but he'd never met them whilst they did it. His heart ached knowing they were, in likelihood, never going to return. "And God keep you."

"You as well, sir," spoke up Archie, who was standing now. "And give our best to that brother of yours. Long live the Union," he hoisted a fist like a rallying cry.

"Long live the union!" The others echoed with chuckles of their own. Matthew forced a smile. They did not know how literal they were being, nor how much misery they were bound for.

"Long live the Union," Matthew echoed, sick with worry and hope.

* * *

_Hours earlier..._

"Mr. Martins," Tabitha, a maid, approached the butler as soon as he was in the door. He was still taking off his hat and coat. "The post arrived while you were out, and Mr. Williams has several letters from England," she said.

"Oh?" Martins tried to indulge the girl. She was very young and new to the house, and was still learning to navigate the strange and secretive politics of Mr. Williams' personal life.

"Yes, sir. And I know you said to put all his mail on his desk for when he gets back, but it's just… one of the letters is from… well, from _England,_ sir," she enunciated carefully. Martins set his coat onto the rack with extreme care and looked pensive into the middle distance before looking back at Tabitha.

"From Lord Kirkland?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Well," Martins said patiently, "we ought to leave it with the rest of his mail, I should think."

"It's just…" Tabitha fidgeted. "Matt- that is, Mister Williams told me once that Lord Kirkland only writes him about things that are very important, and I thought… should we not wire him about it?"

Theodore Martins considered this for a moment, weighing what he knew about Matthew Williams against what little he understood about Arthur Kirkland. After a long while, he shook his head.

"No," he decided. "No, I daresay Mr. Williams has a great deal more to worry about right now. Best let him deal with one crisis at a time. Leave it on his desk; put it on top."

"Yes sir," Tabitha hurried away to do as she was told. Martins felt another hair—of whatever dark hair was left—turn grey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> It's a fairly light chapter history-wise, but there is one big point to discuss here:
> 
> A lot of Canadians fought in the Civil War! Almost all of them fought for the Union, You can imagine why: politically, ideologically, and geographically, Canada had way more in common with the Union than the Confederacy. Additionally, at this point in history slavery had been outlawed in Canada for some time, and Canada was the terminal stop on the Underground Railway. By 1860, about 30,000 people of color were living in Canada. This may not seem like a lot, but considering Canada's population was only about 3.3 million at the time, that's 1% of the population, which, again, may not seem like a lot, but at the time was considerable.
> 
> In all, about 40,000 Canadians fought in the American Civil War. Most joined voluntarily, though some (like John) did so for money. In reality, those being paid to fight would not appear until after 1863, but I wanted John here for representations' sake. American Men who were compelled into service sometimes paid Canadians to take their place. Still others were shanghaied into service—that is, drugged or plied with so much alcohol that they blacked out and then woke up in American Army barracks or aboard a U.S. Navy ship.
> 
> Today, there is a monument to the Canadians who served in the war in Ontario.
> 
> As this story will discuss in a little, though not comprehensive detail, the American Civil War, while obviously a U.S. problem, had a profound and instrumental impact on Canada, and was a primary instagatory event in Canada achieving independence from Great Britain.


	13. September 19, 1862

****CONTENT WARNING: Semi-graphic discussion of death/dead bodies.****

* * *

**September 19, 1862**

**Washington, D.C.**

* * *

Matthew knew that getting an actual audience with Lincoln would be difficult, but it was not, after all, quite as impossible as his inner pessimist had been expecting. It was nearly dusk by the time he'd made it to the White House lawn, and sunset by the time someone noticed him standing in a petitioning stance at the gate. When the butler made it close enough to see Matthew's face, he'd frozen, face going paper-white and shocked. Matthew was afraid he'd turn and run, so he quickly explained:

"I'm Matthew Williams," he peered through the bars of the iron fence, trying to catch the butler's eye and give him a firm but encouraging expression. "Alfred Jones is my brother. I've come from Canada to speak with President Lincoln—unofficially. Please, can you tell him I'm here?"

The butler may have attempted to say something, but it was lost in a mumble and he hurried back into the great house. Left alone with the crickets, Matthew stood at the gate and waited. It was past dark by the time the butler came to fetch him, but this time, he came with a set of heavy iron keys.

"Right this way, Mister Williams," the man said, and Matthew tried to ignore how the man kept looking at his face. He had no doubt it was because of his resemblance to Alfred—their identical faces had become more and more apparent as Matthew caught up to his brother's growing spurts—but the fear evident amid the surprise on his face made the colony nervous in ways he had not been anticipating.

He was let into a small sitting room where he was told the President was expecting him. There was a cart by the door filled with empty plates and cups, remnants of tea or perhaps supper. The fire was low and in need of more coal, but the two men gathered around the table full of maps and papers did not seem to notice or care. When Matthew entered, they both looked up, and collectively seemed to pause.

Lincoln looked exactly as he had in the photographs Matthew had seen: tall and deep-featured, bearded and stern, but with darker circles under his eyes and a wearier tilt to his brow. He was not alone. The other man had a long and frayed beard, a frown, and was peering at Matthew through small wire-rimmed spectacles with equal parts annoyance and interest.

"President Lincoln, Sir," Matthew gave an aborted bow, hands clenched tightly in front of him. He never knew quite how to behave in front of American presidents. Did he bow? Shake hands? Neither? He soldiered on: "Thank you so much for seeing me, I know you could not have been expecting me. I'm Matthew Williams. I'm Alfred Jones'-"

"Twin brother," Lincoln finished for him. His voice was tired, but kind. "Yes, he's told me about you. It's good to meet you."

"The same to you, sir," Matthew blushed to think that Alfred talked about him so much. He hoped his brother had curtailed his comments to flattering stories only. "I only wish that we could have met in better times."

"Indeed. I was surprised to hear that you were at my door, Mr. Williams, and so late at night." Lincoln looked around at the strewn papers, the half-consumed tea. "I apologize we cannot entertain you properly." He then gestured to the long-bearded man next to him. "This is Edwin Stanton, our Secretary of War."

"A pleasure," said Mr. Stanton.

 _Secretary of War,_ the words echoed in Matthew's mind. He gulped and steeled his mind to say what he'd been rehearsing to say for two days:

"I must apologize for my untimely and unannounced arrival, Mister President, Mister Secretary. I know my arrival has been unannounced, and it is because I have traveled here alone. My government does not know I'm here. The Empire certainly doesn't know." He paused to gauge their reaction to that, but if either was surprised, it was not evident to Matthew. He mustered his willpower and continued: "It is not my intention to waste your time, and I have nothing to say of politics. I am here only to ask after the well-being of my brother. I worry for him, I-" Matthew stopped and had to blink rapidly to fight off his own emotions. "Alfred and I are close," he said, "and for nearly two years I've had only one letter from him. I know the post is rarely secure in wartime, and so did not want to burden you with whatever I may say in my letters. For this end, I have traveled here in person to ask: where is my brother? Is he well? Is he-" Matthew was going to say 'safe', but he knew by now that Alfred could never be safe, not with the war. "-is he cared for?" he said instead.

Lincoln and Stanton stared at him for several long moments before exchanging subtle looks with each other. Matthew stood his ground. At length, Lincoln asked,

"Where have you traveled from, Mr. Williams?"

"Montreal," he said. "And Quebec before that."

"That is two days, at least, by train. Longer, if you took a coach from Quebec."

"Yes." Lincoln peered up at him.

"You travelled two days to ask after your brother?"

Matthew had known they would think it ridiculous. Humans always found it peculiar when nations felt so deeply about one another, when they cared about the passing of time when they themselves were so long-lived. Humans could not understand what it was like, to feel everything every man, woman, and child felt in one thousand-fold for centuries.

"Yes, sir," Matthew told him. "I worry for him, for the entire United States. Alfred's fortune is my fortune, and Alfred's peril will, in due course, always become mine. As we speak, hundreds of my people are joining your Army to fight for you, to die for you. I care for him and his wellbeing deeply, and his disappearance has caused me no small amount of worry."

Worry that the war would claim Alfred first, and come for Matthew next. Worry that Alfred would abandon the bonds of brotherhood and eat Matthew whole. Worry that the next skirmish at the border would spell an end to one or both of them. _We've only ever had each other,_ he didn't say, because that wasn't something they shared with humans, _and I worry I'm going to lose him for good._

"Alfred is lucky to have you as a brother," Lincoln said quietly, expression softer than before. Stanton remained stern-faced, and looked as though he wanted to say something, but Lincoln interrupted him. "Mr. Williams, you understand this is a unique and delicate time for us and for your brother. Alfred is an incredibly important person in this war. We must protect him, and information about him, quite ruthlessly." Matthew's heart was sinking to the floor. He'd known this was a likelihood.

"Yes, sir."

Lincoln tugged thoughtfully on his beard, and looked away from the colony. "Give me a moment with Mr. Stanton," he said. "While we decide what to tell you."

At Lincoln's beckoning, a footman escorted Matthew from the room, and the colony perched himself on a hallway bench, jumping at every noise and shift of light as he awaited a summons back. _Please just let me hear of him,_ he prayed desperately. _Let me see him, or know where he's gone. Give me whatever letters he may have been unable to send. Please, just tell me what's become of him._

The door opened in a burst, and Matthew jumped. Stanton stormed through it first, ignoring Matthew entirely and marching down the hall leading away. Lincoln appeared a moment later, watching Stanton go with something like regret or apology in his expression, before closing the door behind him and turning to find Matthew waiting for him. Matthew stood as Lincoln approached.

"I have always understood Canadians to be, even moreso than their brethren from across the water, men of their word, Mr. Williams." Lincoln appraised him from above; the man was immenselytall. Matthew remained silent. "Therefore I am willing to accept your word, should you swear it upon God and all that you hold dear, that what I'm about to disclose will forever remain between yourself and the Almighty. Not a word, not a whisper, not even a hint to anyone in your house, your staff, or any other personage be they human or nation in the world." Matthew didn't have to think.

"I swear it, Mr. President." Lincoln nodded, and consulted his pocket watch. It was very late now, but the President only sighed.

"Come with me."

* * *

It was a short carriage ride to the Capitol building. Lincoln did not explain much on the journey. He told Matthew that Alfred had become unstable upon the outbreak of war, but withheld all detail, leaving the colony to wonder. He explained that Alfred was, in fact, in D.C., and had been from the onset of conflict. This news raised Matthew's spirits more than he thought possible. He'd hoped, of course, but not actually expected to see Alfred in the flesh. However, his visible elation had only made the weariness in Lincoln's eyes grow stronger.

"I hope you will not take offense, Mr. Williams, when I say that the only reason I've convinced Secretary Stanton to let you see your brother is because I desperately need your advice. I do not understand the nature of nations, and I do not know how to help him. And he does need help," he said. "Help I'm not sure any earthly being can give."

Matthew frowned. The eels of worry writhing in his gut gobbled up the dregs of his relief.

"I will do what I can," He promised, not knowing what it was worth.

Matthew had not seen Alfred's Capitol building, or indeed D.C. itself, since it'd burned to the ground in 1814. He'd not personally helped set that fire—that had been Arthur's doing—but he remembered feeling intense vindication upon feeling the flames' heat upon his face. Now, seeing the grand building restored to its former glory and more, he felt stupid and silly for ever thinking 1814 would deter Alfred from his metropolitan dreams.

Marble, granite, and sandstone passed in beguiling patterns, statues, art, and rich tapestry confusing his sense of space and location as Lincoln led him through the halls. There were pairs of guards stationed throughout the building, something Matthew found odd. They all snapped to attention whenever Lincoln appeared, and through the stoic expressions of the soldiers, Matthew could tell they were surprised to see their commander making an appearance, especially at such an hour.

Lincoln led him down a set of stairs, and then another, and they emerged in a level of the building Matthew knew had to be below ground. The ceiling was lower here, and the lack of windows made it feel claustrophobic. Unlike the rooms above, there was no art, no tapestries or fine scrollwork to speak of. There were only bare walls and cold floors, upon which their footsteps echoed not in grandeur, but isolation.

After following a long, curved corridor, they approached a short hallway where not two, but four guards stood posted in front of an iron grate. It looked as though it had a sheet of iron bolted to it to form an opaque door, the handiwork new and somewhat sloppy. As they moved closer, Matthew was hit by a horrible smell: the smell of sweat, of human waste, stale blood, and decay.

"I must warn you," Lincoln told him quietly, "he will not be as you know him. Last I saw him, he was… I'm not sure how he is at present."

Wide-eyed and unable to hide his rising horror, Matthew nodded. They led him to the gate. Lincoln said something to the guards to make them step aside. One of them unlocked the door. It squealed as it swung open. Matthew stepped inside. The room was cast in utter darkness, so one of the guards passed him a lantern to light the way.

He saw the bed before he saw Alfred. At first glance, he thought his brother was sleeping, but after a moment the lantern light caught the dull gleam of Alfred's open eyes, and Matthew let out a cry that echoed horribly in the cramped stone cell.

"Alfred!" He fell to the bedside, nearly dropping the lantern in his haste. He set it down gracelessly and reached immediately for Alfred's neck. There was no pulse, but his eyes could have told him to expect it. Alfred's face was grey, his lips blue, and his entire body reeked of death.

"I've been led to believe he will come back," Lincoln said from behind, sounding unusually nervous. It was a tone Matthew's governors sometimes fell into when they were reminded of how old Matthew was, how utterly ancient and powerful Arthur was. "To my knowledge, he's not died since the early decades of this century. President Jefferson has left us some musings on the nature of Alfred's health and body, but… He's not told us how long to expect such resurrections to take."

"How long has he been dead?" Matthew asked, realizing he was crying only when his voice wobbled from the tears.

"Since Wednesday," Lincoln told him. It was Friday. "There was an invasion. A battle, that is. Our armies saw horrible, unthinkable loss. Alfred was—" Lincoln hesitated. "He was dying before we knew the final toll. We are not sure, exactly, when he passed."

Matthew was preoccupied and unable to listen properly. He cradled Alfred's lifeless face and hiccuped in his attempts to keep the crying at bay. He brushed filthy blonde hair away from his brother's face and grasped his limp-fish hand as if it would do any good. _He's so pale,_ his thoughts raced. _His arms are so skinny, his face is so thin, his skin is so cold._

"How many?" He finally asked, not looking away from Alfred's face. "How many dead?"

"Over twelve thousand from the Union," Lincoln told him quietly, "they're still not certain of the Confederate dead."

"Oh, Christ," Matt choked, tears welling up such that he could no longer see. "Two days," he whispered to Alfred, "it's been two full days, you should be awake by now." He shook Alfred's arm under his hand, and hated how his brother's body lulled with the motion, limp neck yanking his head to and fro like a doll. "Al," he breathed, "wake up. You've got to… come on, now, that's no way to… wake up," he shook again, and again the body jolted under his touch. He tried not to cry, but it was impossible to regain composure, seeing Alfred's face, _his_ face, reflected in death there on the bed. He'd known Alfred had died before. They'd both died several times, across the years, and they'd talked about it before. Still, he'd never had to see Alfred after it'd happened.

"Please," He turned to Lincoln, knowing his face was wet with tears, "please let me stay with him until he wakes up."

Lincoln looked shaken. It was not until much later that Matthew would consider how traumatic it must've been for the man to see his nation laid out like this, now complete with a weeping twin brother. "Of course," the President said.

Matthew did not hear it when Lincoln left, or when the door clanked shut behind him, or when the President whispered instructions to his men to keep a close eye on the visiting colony and their slumbering nation.

Matthew waited by Alfred's corpse, crying and utterly catatonic in turns, for hours that felt like days. There was no comfortable surface in the cell on which to rest besides the bed and a ramshackle old wicker-seated chair which was too tall to sit comfortably by Alfred's bedside. Matthew contented himself with the cold floor. He leaned his head against the bed, hair brushing against Alfred's cold arms as he dozed, too worried to sleep but too exhausted from his journey to remain awake.

Sunrise meant nothing in this underground hideaway, and the only way that Matthew knew so much time had passed was by the amount of melted wax that accumulated in the bottom of the lantern still burning by Alfred's bedside.

About one and a half inches before the candle met its end, Alfred's body lurched and pulled in a wet, grotesque inhale. Matthew started awake at the sound. Alfred's eyes were open and terrified, his lungs fighting for breaths they didn't know how to take, spasming and gurgling. His arms shook as he struggled to right himself. He only got far enough to lean over the bed's edge and vomit blood.

"Alfred," Matthew said, moving out of the way so Alfred could heave. The first few breaths were always the most terrifying. "Alfred, it's alright." He grabbed his brother's wrist, and even as the nation choked and coughed and gagged, he grabbed hold of Matthew's hand as tight as though he clung to a cliff's edge. As the heaving subsided, Alfred's sky blue eyes swam over to Matthew's face, red-rimmed and worried in the candle light. It took a long moment before the terrified fog parted and he Matthew knew Alfred was fully resurrected.

"Mattie?" Alfred squeaked.

"Yes," Matthew whispered, taking Alfred's hand into both of his. "Yes, I'm here."

"Mattie," Alfred said again, his whole body trembling from shock and making his voice shake, too, "what are you doing here?"

"I'm here for you," Matthew said. "I was worried. I was—easy, now," he steadied Alfred's shoulder as his twin heaved again, gagging as his empty stomach clenched, remembering how to make acid and bile. It was all a painful process. "Easy," Matt said again.

"Water," the colony called back at the door, knowing the guards must've heard them by now. "Please, get us some water, and bread, too,"

"Not bread," Alfred wheezed, his hand still holding Matthew's wrist in a terrified vice grip. "Not yet."

"No, but I want you to have it later," Matt whispered to him. He heard boots shuffle across the ground. A latch in the gate opened, and a guard peered in, candlelight leeching in around his face.

"Is he awake?" the man sounded astonished. Matthew wondered if he even believed in the nature of nations.

"Yes, and poorly. I need water for washing and for drinking. And new clothes. And new bedclothes. And bread. And some warm broth, if you can find it. And bandages." He turned back to his brother, using the end of his sleeve to wipe away the blood that had begun to gather at the corner of his mouth. The guards' footsteps echoed down the hall as they retreated away from the cell.

"You're hurt," Matthew assumed. "Where?"

"Mattie, you need to get out of here. You'd not meant to be here."

"Nonsense," Matthew snapped. "I'm here. Now tell me where you're hurt, or I'll strip you and find out myself."

"Side," Alfred closed his eyes, too tired to put up a fight. "Left side."

Matthew uncovered Alfred's left side and cursed.

The guard arrived sometime later with all the things Matthew had requested, and once he relinquished the supplies Matthew immediately began demanding more candles and additional water, and a needle and thread to attend to Alfred's wounds. He got these, too, though it took enough time for him to complain about it to the guard who'd brought them.

"You sound like Arthur when you're bossy," Alfred accused while Matthew pulled a stitch through his skin. The huge gash that had formed across Alfred's side from above his navel to the jut of his left hip was closing slowly and painfully under Matthew's care. Alfred tried not to wince as he pressed the needle through again.

"I'm going to decide to take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't meant to be."

"I know." Matthew hated the sound that the thread made as it sailed through his brothers' flesh.

"Mattie, why did you come here?" Alfred asked.

"One letter," he said, and was surprised by the venom in his own voice. "Nearly two years, and you send me one damn letter, I've been sick with worry. I thought that you… that is, I thought that maybe…" He sighed, and finished a stitch before he spoke again. "I didn't know what to think, Alfred. The whole world has been worried for you." Alfred scoffed.

"Worried," he repeated. "Not worried enough to stop the rumors that—" he hissed when Matthew pulled the final stitch through. "Damn it all," he said. "This isn't your fight, Mattie. You need to go home, to be safe. Before I…" he paused. "Before I screw it all up."

"Shush," Matthew told him as he tied off the suture. "I chose to come here."

"Does Arthur know?"

"No."

"Does your governor?"

"...No." Despite his pathetic state, Alfred managed an impressed whistle.

"My brother, the rebel. Who'd've thought?" he teased, smiling taught through the pain.

"Shush," Matthew demanded again. The pair fell into silence as Matthew packed up the medic kit the guards had brought to him. He helped Alfred into a fresh shirt and loose trousers, and spent some time looking for Alfred's glasses until he found them sitting atop the small bookshelf in the corner. While Alfred fussed over the dirty lenses, Matthew took his time piling the soiled linens into a corner, trying to figure out how to best phrase what he would ask next.

"Why are you here, Al?" he ventured. Alfred wouldn't look at him. "This is a cell. A prison. They've locked you away here, and you must've let them."

"It's for my own good," Alfred said hollowly. "And for theirs, too."

"What does that mean?"

"I can't fight on the fields."

"Why not?"

"I just can't, alright?" Alfred snapped.

"But you died," Matthew reminded him. "You died, just like you would have done if you were fighting, but you're not. So why? Why lock you up, shut you away? You can't like it down here," Matthew said, glaring at their dark surroundings. It was well noon, from what his pocket watch told him, but it was still dark as night here in the cell. "You wouldn't choose this, I know you wouldn't."

Alfred glared at him, but only for a moment. His body was still shuddering and cramping as it remembered how to function, and he winced through a particularly bad cramp in his right leg before he said,

"I think I could have some broth now, if it's still warm."

Matthew helped him to eat for the first few bites. After that, he was able to hold the spoon himself and only spilled a little bit on his lap as he did. Matthew moved the lantern around the room, lighting the candles that the guards had fetched for him.

"There," he said once he was finished. "That's a bit more cheerful now, isn't it?" There was not much to cheer. The cell was small, with only a bed, a small bookshelf, a chair, and a tiny table, barely big enough to eat a meal on; or write a letter. Matthew remembered the one and only letter he'd had from Alfred since the start of the war, and how abrupt it'd been. _I'm running out of paper,_ he remembered reading. Had Alfred written him from here, in this cell?

"Alfred," He began to ask, but stopped when he saw his brother. Alfred had set the bowl of broth aside and was staring ahead with wide eyes, hand gripped to the edge of the bed. "Alfred?" Matthew said again, this time in concern.

"Mattie," Alfred snapped, not looking fully at his brother, "get out. You have to get out of here, leave. I…" he stiffened, choking again in what appeared to be a post-revival fit. They always lasted the first day or two after dying. Matthew rushed to his side.

"Al, easy, there, just breathe, alright?" He frowned, watching his brother's face contort with sympathy. "Why do you want me to leave? You think I haven't seen someone come back from dying before?"

Alfred was still stiff, jerking forward as if trying to keep from vomiting again. Eventually the tremors subsided, and Alfred stilled before looking up at his brother.

"Leave?" he said, and his voice was odd. "Why would I…" he frowned and looked at Matthew dead in the eyes and froze. He looked his twin up and down. "You," he said.

"What?" Matthew replied.

"Brother," Alfred said, dropping the 'R' in an accent not unlike Arthur's. Matthew leaned away.

"Alfred?" he asked, trying to look into Alfred's eyes. "Are you alri-"

"Don't call me that," Alfred snapped. "That's not my damn name." Matthew was nonplussed, not only by the words, by the voice that spoke them.

"Al, why on earth are you talking like-"

"I said, _stop calling me that,"_ Alfred roared, and surged up off the bed to grab Matthew by the throat. The colony choked around his twin's hand, which was tighter than an iron vice. He grabbed at Alfred's skinny wrist, which despite his earlier fatigue was corded and taught with unnatural strength.

"Al," he gurgled around the name, "let me go,"

"My name is _not_ Alfred," his brother drawled, drawing him closer, so that their eyes were only centimeters apart. His hand was too tight now for Matthew to breathe, let alone speak. "My name is Andrew. I killed Alfred afield ten thousand times over. He is not your brother any more than I will be his slave." Andrew shoved Matthew away, and the colony staggered back, coughs rattling his chest.

"What are you talking about?" Matthew said, holding his sore neck.

"The United States is dead and dying. It's going to be me, just me now. I'll be better than he ever was. More free, more upright, more true. Now get on out of here and go tell it to your betters. Sir Kirkland has ignored every letter I send his way, but he won't ignore you," Andrew squinted at Matthew and began to advance on his twin, slowly like a wolf. "He _adores_ you. He worries for you, and it is worry well-founded. You think your dear brother won't turn around and eat you alive when he realizes I'm winning?" Matthew was backing away from his twin, not watching where he was going. He was too transfixed and aghast by his brother's monstrous expression. "You think he won't curse your name? Burn your cities? Upended all that you've built? I can help you, protect you from him, but not if I'm fighting alone. Tell _that_ to Arthur."

Matthew only realized that his back was to the cell door when he felt it rattle against him when a guard banged on it.

"What's going on in there? Everything alright? I heard raised voices." Matthew ignored it, staring into the eyes of a stranger he thought he'd known since before they'd had names.

"Alfred," He began,

Andrew yelled in wordless fury and flew at him, hands outstretched and teeth bared. Matthew struggled with him, barely holding his brother's hands away from his neck

There was a shuffle of commotion on the other side of the door, and before he knew what was happening, the door was squealing open and Matthew was being pulled out of the cell backwards by his arms. The soldiers pried Andrew's hands off him only by slamming the butt end of a musket down on his knuckles. Cut loose, Matthew fell back and watched from the ground as Andrew howled in pain. One of the guards kicked him back into the cell.

"Close it! Close it, quickly now, quickly!" He shouted to his three comrades, who all had to lend their weight against the door to press it closed and lock it against Andrew's furious shouts and swears. He kicked at the door and the sound echoed across the entire basement.

"You tell him!" Andrew shouted at Matthew from behind the door. "You tell him my people are dying tenfold of Lancashire. Tell him the streets of Washington will run red before I let him take my freedom. Tell Arthur that he's signing your death warrant by abandoning me now. You tell him _that,_ little brother."

Matthew was dumbstruck. One of the guards helped him to his feet.

"You okay?" he asked. Matthew could not answer.

"I need to go," he said, feeling not quite himself. "President Lincoln brought me here. I should… that is, I ought to speak with him, before I…"

"I'll call for him."

Lincoln had heard about what happened before Matthew got in the coach. It was mid-morning, but for Matthew it may as well have been the witching hours of the night.

"I know this must be hard for you," Lincoln said gently, once they were underway and alone in the privacy of the car. "You understand now why he's been under lock and key."

"Mmm," Matthew hummed, not able to make his mouth form words. _Little brother._ Alfred had never called him that, _ever_. Even in their tense days during Alfred's Revolution, when Matthew really had been littler, Alfred had never demeaned him in that way. It'd only ever been 'Mattie'.

"Do you know what's happening to him?" Lincoln asked, bringing Matthew from his reverie. "There is no one to consult, no sage who can give me answers to his condition. I can hardly bare the truth of his state to other nations, but you've come here freely, and I'd hoped you might be able to help me, in return for my trust."

Matthew realized that Lincoln had made a very serious gambit in letting him see Alfred—Andrew—whoever it was. He must've been desperate when Alfred died.

"How long has it been this way?" Matthew asked. "With the… you know."

"About two years," Lincoln said, and Matthew had to look out the window and catch his breath. "Do you know what's happening to him?"

"No," Matthew blurted helplessly. He'd heard stories from the Old World, anecdotes in some of Arthur's more gruesome bedtime stories, but he'd never thought they'd been so literal. Such fantastical re-tellings did not measure up to the reality of Alfred's possession. "No, I've never seen anything like it," He said, voice fragile. Lincoln looked, if possible, more world-weary than before. Matthew caught the expression. "I'm so sorry, sir, I am still very young. This has probably happened before, but not to me, or anyone I know—well," he looked at his hands, "until now."

Silence passed between them, the gravel of Pennsylvania Avenue crackling underneath the carriage wheels.

"I'm sorry for your brother," Lincoln said at length, "and that you had to see him like that. Losing our siblings is not easy, even if it is temporary." The tender note to his voice made a lump appear in Matthew's throat and he found himself unable to answer. He nodded instead. They were pulling into the White House's North Lawn drive before Matthew said:

"You must take care of him." He managed to look Lincoln in the eye. "You must see that he survives, Mr. Lincoln." The president met the colony's gaze and gave a somber nod.

"It is my one and only aim, Mr. Williams."

* * *

Matthew returned to Montreal and wired Theodore to fetch him. He said nothing in the carriage ride home to the wooded outskirts of Quebec, and was grateful when his butler did not press the matter. He went straight to bed, forsaking tea and supper altogether. There was a pile of mail on his desk that he'd seen when he first reached his rooms, but he had not the heart to sort through it that night.

He needed to tell Arthur about Alfred. He needed to, he ached to, but he couldn't. He'd made President Lincoln a promise, and after seeing Alfred in such a fragile state, he was terrified that if he broke his promise, he'd have to watch as the world unraveled Alfred completely. _"Stop calling me that,"_ the shouts echoed in his mind as he struggled for sleep. _"He is not your brother anymore."_

"Alfred, you fool," he cried into his pillow, wishing he'd had the chance to say goodbye before Andrew had taken him. He wanted to believe he'd see Alfred again, but in war, nothing was certain but more misery before either victory or defeat. He hugged his pillow hard to his face, because he hadn't had the chance to hug his brother. "You colossal, selfish fool."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. Just a quick side-note here to say that at this point in time, Matthew does not yet wear glasses, so when people see him and think he looks similar to Alfred, they are correct, but Alfred does still have the glasses to distinguish him at this point in time.
> 
> 2\. Edwin Stanton was indeed Lincoln's Secretary of War for the duration of the Civil War. Though he certainly accomplished many things during his tenure that took a formerly disorganized and rudderless war apparatus and turned it into something that could fight the Confederacy, he was regarded by many to be overly cautious and controlling of those under him. He was also a very taciturn individual, and more inclined to reason and strategy than personal feelings—a good quality for a secretary of war, you might say, but not necessarily great company for tea.
> 
> 3\. So as you probably know, attacking British forces burned Washington D.C. largely to the ground (including the White House and the Capitol) in 1814. The capitol was afterwards rebuilt. Though most of this second capitol building stands today, the capitol as we know it has been expanded and renovated many times. One such renovation in 1958 required some demolition that removed the 19th century masonry from the building, mostly limestone and marble. You can visit these "ruins" of the capitol, now called the Capitol Stones, in Rock Creek Park, which is an NPS-run park in D.C. that is a short jaunt northwest from downtown. They're eerily beautiful! If you ever get the chance to visit them, tread carefully and with respect, those old bricks have some stories to tell!
> 
> 4\. The battle referred to in this story (the one that killed Alfred by proxy, as it were) is the Battle of Antietam (also referred to the Battle of Sharpsburg by more Confederate-sympathetic writers. The battle is so named because it was fought near Sharpsburg, Maryland, and Antietam Creek). This battle was fought in the Union state of Maryland, and was the first significant battle fought on Union soil. It was also the single bloodiest day in the Civil War. Fought almost entirely on September 17, 1862, the total casualties amounted to nearly 23,000, with over 12,000 on the side of the Union and over 10,000 on the side of the Confederacy. It is important to note that casualty counts include both dead and wounded, and the clear majority of the causalities in this battle were in fact injuries, not deaths, which is common in all Civil War battles. This distinction is what differentiates the terms "bloodiest" (i.e. most injuries + deaths) versus "deadliest" (i.e. most deaths). However, it's also worth noting that a lot of the men who were "injured" causalities would likely die shortly after the battle due to various medical complications. Civil War medicine was gruesome at best and downright evil at worst.
> 
> 5\. Lincoln's mention at the end there of how it is difficult to lose siblings was a reference to Lincoln's hard adolescence. Lincoln was born into poverty, and lost his mother when he was only nine years old. His sister Sarah, who was only two years older than him, essentially raised him for a year until their father remarried. Sarah died age 21 following complications of childbirth of a stillborn son when Lincoln was 19. This was a devastating blow for him, as Sarah was his only full-blood sibling (his stepmother from age 10 onwards had three children, but he did not grow up with these children as his siblings as he had with Sarah).


	14. January 1, 1862

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: 19th century-typical language surrounding race and slavery in the United States (in the first newspaper excerpt). 
> 
> Please note that the excerpts from the 'The British Colonist' as well as the 'Weekly British Colonist' are NOT fiction. They are 100% real excerpts from real newspapers published in British Columbia on the indicated dates. "[...]" indicates portions that I omitted for brevity's sake. All paragraph breaks to the first excerpt have been added by me. I accessed these newspapers and others online on The Internet Archive. These specific collections were digitized by the University of Victoria Libraries. Way to go, UVicL! You never thought your hard work would end up in fanfiction, now did ya?
> 
> Additionally, I just want to take a moment to warn you that I'll be skimming over a great deal of interesting Civil War history from here on, most likely to the end. As I've said before, I'm trying to keep this fic focused on the international aspects of the Civil War without dwelling overmuch on the nitty gritty details of the Civil War as it is usually discussed in the U.S. We'll talk about Alfred and his experiences, of course, but all in a much more condensed context without minute detail regarding many battles, except for a few here and there.

**January 1, 1863**

**Victoria, Colony of British Columbia**

* * *

_**THE BRITISH COLONIST** _

_**Wednesday Morning, Oct. 8, 1862** _

" _ **States News.**_ _[…]  
  
_ _If Federal generals have not been doing much since the battle of Antietam, the Federal Cabinet has not been unoccupied. Following the retreat of Lee and Jackson, President Lincoln has issued a proclamation emancipating the slaves throughout the entire rebel States on the first of January next. A measure will also be submitted to Congress when it meets to emancipate slaves in the border States that remain loyal. During the present year Congress has consecrated to liberty every foot of land in the territories. Such an act of itself was enough to surround the name of Lincoln with a halo of never-dying glory. It was promised the nation by the party who elected him, and that promise has been fulfilled._

_But the emancipation act is the offspring of necessity. It is scarcely a human work. It is the command of God._ _[…]  
_

_The war has come down to a war of Sections. It has become a great conflict, that is either to end in two nations or the subjection of the slave holders. The North knows it; yet it shrinks not from the conflict. if successful, posterity will never give such men as Lincoln or Seward credit for that enlightened philanthropy that inspired the British emancipationists to emancipate the slaves in the British West Indies. History will write them down as having no sympathy with the down-trodden African. It will credit them with having emancipated 4,000,000 slaves in a moment of desperation, not from a love of human liberty in the abstract, but from a hatred of the slaveholders—not as slave-holders, but as rebels fighting against the Constitution and laws. To preserve the nation from being shattered into fragments is their sole object. If they succeed they will be honored; if they fail, the emancipation scheme will be unsuccessful._

_Every lover of genuine liberty must hope that slavery may cease, and his wishes will consequently go with the North henceforth._ _[…]_

_In the meantime Europe—England, France, Germany—will stand appealed. No cotton, no work—no cotton, millions of operatives unemployed. Europe will groan in misery. The curse of slavery will make itself felt throughout the civilized world. Nothing can prevent it. Intervention could not, if it were near; but we believe it to be distant—and if not impossible it is improbable. There is nothing but exhaustion that can restore peace. May it come soon._

_**WEEKLY BRITISH COLONIST** _

_**Tuesday, October 14, 1862** _

_**NEWS IN DETAIL.** _

_WASHINGTON, Sept. 22.—A proclamation has been issued by the President, the substance of which is as follows:_

_I, Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States and Commander in Chief of the army and navy, hereby proclaim and declare […]_

_On the 1st of January, 1863, all persons held as slaves within the State or part of State, the people whereof shall then be in rebellion against the United States, shall be then and ever after free._

* * *

Matthew had held onto the newspapers for months, knowing it would be ages before he received more news from Washington. Telegrams and letters did not reach this far west without great labor. In Quebec, the onslaught of news from New York had been mind-boggling, some days, but way out here in Victoria, the entire world felt a million miles away.

Matthew understood why Arthur had asked him to take himself so far west, and truthfully, he was grateful for the opportunity to see these new coastal cities grow. Still, in the limbo-like shoulders of the day, before breakfast and after supper, when he had nothing to do but read the newspaper and think, he could not help but remember his clandestine travels to Washington, and what he'd witnessed there.

He hadn't had any letters from Alfred since the visit. Then again, he hadn't attempted to write Alfred since then, either. He found himself too shaken by his brother's condition to attempt it. Thinking of Alfred, cooped up underground with naught but a candle, a bed, a few books and a chamber pot struck him with such sadness he couldn't think of what on earth to say to his twin. Furthermore, what if it was _Andrew_ who read it? It did not bear consideration.

Even so, he kept every scrap of every piece of news on his brother that he could find. October's revelations on Lincoln's plans for Emancipation had been welcome and long-awaited, and all throughout British North America, it had bolstered support for the Union.

Matthew poured two glasses of whisky and set them out on the table before him and moved the candle nearer to the window, its dancing flame reflected in the glass. The world outside had been dark for hours, but Matthew was still in his day dress. He plucked his pocketwatch out of his waistcoat and checked the time, watching as the second hand ticked steadily towards the dial's apex. _Click click click click,_ it hummed, not knowing the august nature of the hour, _click click click click,_ and suddenly, midnight. Matthew snapped the watch shut, picked up one of the glasses of whisky, and clinked his glass against the other.

"Congratulations, Al," he said, very quietly, raising his drink in a toast. "About time you started living up to that Declaration of yours." He drank his whiskey, tucked the newspapers away into the folders where he'd been keeping them, and went to bed, leaving his brothers' glass untouched.

* * *

**January 1, 1863**

**Washington, D.C.**

* * *

Alfred breathed in, feeling the buoyancy of his lungs in minute, exquisite detail. He knew that he was underground still, suffocated by the stench of his own sweat and filth and whatever molds were growing down here, but if he closed his eyes he could see the stars and feel the pine-winter breeze whip at his cheeks.

He'd been delirious with fever for over a month. The last days he remembered clearly were the early days of November, and even those memories were coated in a patina of anxiety that had plagued him in growing waves for nearly three years, now. The Other had taken him more and more often, coming in and out like a pox he couldn't shake, commandeering his mind to the beat of battles won and lost. He'd lost the entirety of Christmas to Andrew, and it hurt him more than he thought it would.

But now, it was a new year. 1863. He had no watch, but he knew it was true, because he could breathe, just as Lincoln had promised. He could breathe freely if for just this one day, because out there, so many of his people were breathing free for the first time in their lives.

"Daniel," he croaked, leaned up against the edge of the cell door where light crept in from the outside. The guards weren't supposed to talk to him, he knew that. After Andrew had convinced one of them to bring him maps and charts, they were supposed to ignore everything he said, but it didn't stop him. "Daniel," he repeated, "they're really free, aren't they?" When Daniel did not respond, Alfred leaned his head back and let the feelings wash over him. "Shenandoah. Alexandria. Mississippi Valley. It's happening right now, isn't it?"

There were sounds of shifting clothes outside as Daniel turned to look down through the crack in the door at the dirty edge of Alfred's hair, the only part of the man he could see.

"Yes, Alfred," he said. Calling the nation by his name was the guards' litmus test to see which nation was present; Andrew usually recoiled at the name. Upon hearing his name, Alfred smiled.

"They promised me this nearly a century ago," Alfred told him. Eyes still closed, tears were running down his face and into his smile, pure bliss and jubilation. "I can hear them singing," he said, overcome with emotion. A thousand faces from a hundred years flashed before his memory, promises he'd made as a child not knowing his leaders would never fulfill them. "They're singing. Have you ever heard anything so lovely?"

The cell at the bottom of the Capitol was utterly silent, save for the whipping flames of torches and shuffling of soldiers' boots. However, in the privacy of Alfred's mind, where Nation and People existed as one in an incomprehensible bond, the world was a choir of heaven, beautiful voices in dozens of languages raised in joy. Daniel could not hear it, but he could hear the tone in Alfred's voice, one he'd not heard the nation use since before the war: he sounded happy.

"No, sir," he told Alfred quietly. "Nothing so lovely in my life."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. It should be noted that the first newspaper excerpt is pretty accurate about Lincoln's reasons for issuing the Emancipation Proclamation. Namely: Lincoln issued the Proclamation more out of political practicality than out of any idealism against slavery. It is an absolute fact that a ton of Union sympathizers and soldiers would have been abolitionists and would have been looking forward to emancipation for a long time, however, a great deal of the Union was still what we would classify today as white supremacists. They might've believed in the need to emancipate slaves and would have objected to the idea of slavery in the abstract, but in practice they would never believe in the equality of all races. It can be difficult to differentiate Lincoln's personal views on slavery from his public and political statements on slavery (come on, guys, we all know politicians lie about their personal beliefs to get elected and placate the lowest common denominator of their electorate,) and certainly a lot of things Lincoln said and did were incredibly racist. However, even in this practical and non-idealistic framework, he did issue this Proclamation on September 22, 1862, and it was enacted on January 1, 1863.
> 
> 2\. The Proclamation went into immediate effect in all areas in Union control, which includes the regions Alfred mentions here. Contemporaneous accounts (Including one by Booker T. Washington) tell of freed captives singing and celebrating leading up to and on January 1st, when they were delivered news of their new legal status. However, freedom would not extend to all CSA states until the Union arrived and took control. This is most notably the case in Texas, the most remote of the CSA states, where news of the Emancipation Proclamation did not reach enslaved people there until June 19. Today, June 19 is celebrated as Juneteenth in commemoration of this day.
> 
> 3\. Regarding Alfred's claim that they promised him emancipation almost a century ago: in 1787, while drafting the constitution, a great argument broke out as to whether enslaved people should count towards a state's population in order to determine the number of Representatives that state has in the House. Many states at this point had outlawed slavery, and several others were vehemently against the trade, but the southern states still relied on slavery. When it was suggested that the U.S. government could outlaw the slave trade, the southern states threateed to leave the Union. A compromise was reached: the federal government could choose to outlaw slavery, but only after 1800. This date was later extended to 1808. After that, the states adopted the balance of "free states" vs "slave states", which of course led to the civil war. Basically, old entitled white guys spent almost 100 years passing the moral ticking time bomb of their country's social fabric from one generation to the next, until it all came to a boiling point. Lincoln, not out of moral superiority, but out of sheer exhaustion, was the one who finally said "enough".


	15. July 3, 1863

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Character death, description of death, mention of violence, mention of (attempted) suicide.

**July 3, 1863, Washington, D.C.**

**Third and final day of the battle in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania**

* * *

The high hopes of the new year were short lived. The beat of the war was relentless, and whereas in the early stages of war he'd been able to save face and force himself to endure, the false hope of the new year stripped away his defenses and laid him bare. Every battle, every day, every skirmish and outbreak of disease left him gasping and groaning for respite. Even in May, when his army had seen such streaks of success, it was often too much to bear. If New Year's Day had built him up, the rest of the year so far had razed him to the ground, until there was nothing left but his skin and bones—and even those, it seemed, often found their breaking point.

He'd spent the entire day screaming and bleeding. He'd spent the last several days screaming, in fact, mind set aflame by a battle fought miles and miles away. He could no longer remember what day it was, or what year, or even how old he was. He couldn't even remember having ever been born, but he knew he must've been born at some point, and resented it immensely. He'd had a name, but he now forgot it too often to care. The days themselves melded together in this underground hell, neither day nor night, summer nor winter, awake nor asleep. This cell was built for a dead man, and every day he woke up alive the irony hurt a little more.

Pain welled up from the ether, digging into his stomach like a thousand bayonets, and he screamed again. The sound echoed off the bare stone walls of his cell and the shrill timbre tore at his ears like nails against slate. He hated screaming, and he hated hearing himself scream. He hated everything. He hated himself.

"Stop," he sobbed to the silence of the floor, stomach aching from his wounds and from screaming. "Just stop, please, please just stop, stop it all, _please_ ," he clutched at his stomach and felt the hot blood welling up thick. It dribbled onto the ground and the warmth spread to his whole side as the puddle grew. _Oh,_ he realized with a terrified moan, _so it's going to be one of those days._ He cried to the bare floor, trembling, waiting for the inevitable. He longed for a pillow, to bury his face into, or to clutch, or to kick, but there was nothing here for him. Only stone walls, a stone floor, and a locked iron door.

He could still faintly remember his cell as it'd been originally furnished. There'd been a small bed, a bookshelf, a writing desk and a coffee kit at his request. He'd had access to maps and the latest news, and had received mail, near the beginning. He'd been allowed hot water for coffee, and coals to warm his bed in the winter, and three square meals a day.

Then one day, in one of his fits, Andrew had fashioned all of his pens into daggers and tried to pick the lock and kill the guards. They'd taken away his writing desk and stationary before the day was up.

Then, he'd tried to hang himself with his bed sheets. They'd taken those away, and all his blankets, too.

Then Andrew had torn out the words in his books and used them to compose letters to the Confederates and tried to smuggle them out through a double-crossing guard. They'd court martialed the guard, and taken away all the books, even the Bible. That's also when they'd taken the coffee kit away, fearful of what he'd do with sterling silver (Andrew had been planning on sharpening the spoons into points using the grout between stone tiles as a file).

Then Andrew had taken the ropes from his bed frame and tried to strangle a guard at his mealtime. He'd succeeded. They'd taken away the bed frame. They even took his glasses away, afraid he could use the metal frames or lenses to hurt another guard—or himself.

The mattress was last. They'd only taken that away after he'd died on it and left it beyond repair. They replaced it for when he woke up. Then he'd died again, and again, and sometime in perhaps April, they'd stopped trying, and replaced his bed with an open pile of straw. There was a war on. There was not enough time or money to stuff a new mattress each time Alfred Jones bled himself out in a prison cell.

 _Alfred Jones._ That was his name. He'd nearly forgotten it again. _Alfred Jones._ The name sounded indistinct in his mind, mixed with hundreds and thousands of others as they paraded themselves in shrieks and groans for his individual consideration. Blood flowed out of his side and in his mind. So much blood. So much fear. So much death. All those names had all died today, or the day before.

Maybe that was why he was remembering his name now. He'd be joining them in mere moments, it was only right for his name to join the day's list of dead. He'd come back, unlike them, and that was worse than knowing he was dying. He'd come back and it'd hurt even worse than it had the last time, because it always did. They would clean up his corpse and wash the blood from his cell, and they'd lock the body back in the same cell with a pitcher of water and a loaf of bread, and they'd leave him there to resurrect alone. He'd wake up and panic when his body couldn't remember how to breathe, then he'd cry, and if they heard him, they wouldn't do anything about it.

Cold replaced the warmth at his side. It felt like cold from the stone tiles beneath him, but he'd been through this routine often enough to know better. It washed up through his body like a flood, taking his feet and hands first, then his arms and legs, then his face, ears, and eyes, then his lungs, and last of all, his heart.

Right before he died, Alfred remembered that tomorrow was his birthday.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> Alright, so this was a super indulgent and angst-y chapter, and was actually the very first chapter that I wrote when I drafted this whole story. You didn't think I could let you off with that hopeful note last chapter, did you? Still, amid the angst, I do have a few quick historical notes.
> 
> 1\. The reason why this chapter is so dark is because Gettysburg was, in addition to being the turning point of the war, also the most deadly battle of the war. Unlike Antietam, which was the bloodiest (most deaths + injured), Gettysburg was the deadliest (most deaths).
> 
> 2\. Disease was a huge problem in the Civil War! A ton of soldiers did not actually survive long enough to die in battle, because they were taken early by various illnesses. Pneumonia, typhoid fever, dysentery, and malaria were some common culprits.


	16. July 21, 1863

**July 21, 1863**

**Washington D.C.**

* * *

When he'd died, Alfred had been expecting to wake up as he usually did: gasping, terrified, freezing cold and sweating, with a battledrum heart and a thirst so profound he could drink the Great Lakes.

Instead, he woke up with a crick in his neck, a chalky taste in his mouth, and the feeling of sticky drool trailing down one corner of his mouth. Alfred raised his head and groaned when his brain began to throb. He blinked his eyes open and scowled at his surroundings. The cell was as he'd left it: bare save for a chamberpot, a pitcher of water, a wooden mug, and the pile of straw where he now lay sprawled out. He could feel straw sticking to his hair and the drool on his face, and did what he could to pick it off before crawling across the floor. The pitcher was empty. _Damn._

"Hello?" he croaked, and winced. Christ, his voice was practically gone, and his throat burned like fire. He moved closer to the door, pitcher in hand. He had no idea what time it was, but there were always guards posted outside. "Hello, guards?" He tried again, closer to the door. "Daniel? Hal?" Still, nothing. Alfred sighed. "Please," he said, to whoever was on the other side, "I need water."

There was noise beyond the door, and Alfred could almost imagine the guards standing around looking at each other. _I'm not going to help the madman,_ their looks must've said. He knew they must've all been sick of him by now. _Are you?_ He closed his eyes and rubbed at his face.

"Please," he said again, "I just woke up, I'm extremely thirsty." He waited. After a moment, he heard the boots of whichever guard had drawn the short straw shuffle towards the door.

"...Alfred?" the man asked, sounding surprised.

"Yes," Alfred said, annoyed that they had to go through these motions. _Damn Andrew._ "Please, could you get me water?"

"Yes, of course," said the guard. Alfred thought it sounded like William—a young eighteen year-old boy, son of a representative, he remembered.

"And something to eat?" He added. At this, William hesitated.

"Henry sent in your evening meal not half an hour ago," the guard reported regretfully. "If you already ate it…"

Alfred looked down and found the bowl of porridge, now cold, at his feet by the latch in the bottom of the door.

"Ah," he said, annoyed that he'd been asleep while it'd gone cold. "Nevermind then. Water would still be welcome."

"Hal's off to fetch it now, sir."

"Thank you." Alfred sat down on the ground by the door and began to shovel cold porridge into his mouth. It was half congealed, but it quieted his rumbling stomach.

"I have to tell you, Alfred," said William, "it's a relief to hear _you_ speaking again."

"Oh?" Alfred coughed, determined not to taste or feel the horrible food as he swallowed it. He'd surmised that after he'd died, it had been Andrew to do the coming back to life for the both of them, something that Alfred found both unnerving and deeply satisfying. _Let him feel it for once,_ he stabbed the oat sludge with his spoon, "How long was I out?" He asked.

"Over two weeks."

Alfred choked around a spoonful.

"Two _weeks?"_ he echoed. "What _happened?"_

"We think it's to do with the draft, you see," William began. "In New York they've—"

"You're not meant to be speaking to him, you know that," reprimanded an older guard, sounding apologetic. "Sorry, sir, it's nothing personal,"

"No, no," Alfred said. It never was. "I understand."

"We'll have you that water shortly, sir."

Alfred said nothing more, and continued to eat. _The draft._ Yes, that did sound right. He always lost the entirety of whatever time Andrew took away from him, but slowly, he was getting better at capturing snippets of memories, flashes and impressions of Andrew's outbursts after they'd happened. He could remember, as if from a dream, hearing Andrew—himself?—screaming and yelling, ranting and raving about 'Northern Oppression' and the disgrace of the new Union draft. There was something happening in New York, something chaotic and important, but that part was less clear. Southern sympathizers in New York had emerged en force to oppose Lincoln's draft, but it had turned into something else, something about Emancipation and rich men getting off scot free.

Alfred only realized he'd eaten all his dinner when his spoon came up to his mouth empty. However, when he set the utensil back into the bowl, it did not give its usual pewter _clang,_ but a soft and muffled _thud._ Frowning, Alfred looked down at the bowl, where the sticky dregs of the porridge clung in webs. Using his spoon, he scraped at the bottom of the bowl and froze when he realized that there had been something hidden beneath the cereal. It looked like paper. He dug with his spoon to find the edge, and one corner popped up. It looked like a _letter._

A knock on the door jolted him so he almost dropped the bowl and spoon altogether.

"I've got your water," said Hal from the other side. "Back of the cell, if you please."

"Of course," Alfred muttered, and went to the back as he was told. The pitcher was too large to fit through the bowl-sized latch they used to at mealtimes, so someone always had to open the door to refill it. Given past experience, they didn't like Alfred being anywhere near the door when it opened.

The door groaned open and Hal entered hesitantly, eyeing Alfred with respect and fear. As he filled the pitcher, he glanced at Alfred, who still held his bowl.

"You finished with that?" he asked. Alfred held the bowl close to his chest and tilted so Hal wouldn't see its contents.

"Still eating," Alfred told him. "I'll leave it by the door when I'm done."

Hal grunted and finished with his task. When the door shut and the lock fell into place, Alfred retreated back to the alcove where he slept and pried the letter from the bowl. Using a fistful of straw, he brushed away the glue-like porridge to reveal the name written on the back of the envelope:

_Andrew Jones_

His eyes widened. He knew that Andrew had managed to smuggle information in and out of this cell thanks to southern-sympathizing guards, but he'd never personally seen it happening. Moreover, he recognized the handwriting.

"Shit," he breathed, and tore into the envelope. Hands shaking, trying to mask the tell-tale rustle of paper, he unfolded the letter, which was mercifully unblemished by his dinner. It was short, and written in a familiar, perfect cursive:

_Dear Andrew Jones,_

_Britain will not intervene on your behalf. Do not ask again. Francis Bonnefoy sends his regards, and has asked me to echo my own sentiments on his behalf and also request that you cease writing letters to him. Your French is, apparently, terrible._

_Far be it from a neutral nation to offer wartime advice, but should you opt to hoist the white flag, do know that you would be neither the first nor the mightiest nation to surrender to the United States. He is far stronger than you give him credit for. Take it from someone who knows._

_Please send Alfred my best wishes._

_Regards,_

_Sir Arthur Kirkland, GBE_

Something like fire or sunlight burned in Alfred's chest, a sensation he hadn't felt in years. It felt like vindication, and revenge, and something like hope. He flattened the letter on the wall of the alcove where it would be waiting to greet Andrew next time he awoke. Using the leftover bits of his porridge, he pasted it in place so it would stay. Then, he found the stiffest piece of straw he could find, tore off the tip with his teeth until it was sharp, and jabbed his palm with the needle-sharp tip. He used it to write below Arthur's signature in crimson red:

_Fuck you, greyback bastard._

He sucked at his inkwell wound and waited for the bleeding to stop. It didn't take long. Then, he went to the door, chugged several massive gulps of water straight from the pitcher, wiped his mouth, and spoke to the door,

"Hal, are you still there?"

The gruff older guard cleared his throat.

"Aye, sir."

"Young William, he's told me that Henry was the guard to give me my dinner, before I woke up, is that right?"

There was a pause.

"I believe so, yes."

"Is Henry still here?"

"Gone home for the night," Hal gruffed. Another suspicious pause. "Why?" Alfred picked up the discarded envelope and examined the wax seal. It'd been ages since he'd last seen Arthur's coat of arms.

"Because I think his superiors may want to have a word with him—and with whomever cooks for me, too." Alfred told him. "He seems to be trying to smuggle Andrew information."

"Christ, again?" Hal burst. He'd been by Alfred's cell long enough to see several attempts already.

"Hell of good it did either of them," Alfred shrugged, glancing at the letter on the wall, "but I would hate for him to think he's done the right thing. Send word to the President, when you get the chance. Tell him he ought to meet with Ambassador Adams as soon as he can. And while you're at it, get a hold of Secretary Welles and tell him to tighten up on the blockade. Starve them out of the gulf, route out their supply chains. If they can smuggle a letter to me, they can smuggle a ship or two across the Atlantic. Oh, and ask if General Grant has had any success keeping the rebels from contacting French forces in Mexico—actually, you know what, just tell Lincoln to meet with Adams _and_ Dayton, will you? _Then_ ask about Grant."

Alfred, who'd for the better part of a century had had men following his orders at face value, did not appreciate the silence that followed.

"Sir, you just woke up, and Andrew… are you feeling alright, Alfred?"

Alfred took stock of the question, and realized that actually, yes, he _was_ feeling alright. Better than he had in months, actually. His entire body was bruised and aching, his brain hurt, he had open wounds from Gettysburg and dozens of battles before, his hair was greasy and long, cheeks unshaven, eyes sunken, fingernails cracked, lips bleeding, but yes, he _did_ feel better. For the first time in months—no, years—he could think clearly enough to see what had to be done. This war had gone on for too long. It was not over, he knew that, but if the British and the French really were determined to stay neutral, the war would have an end. He didn't know when, he didn't know how, but it would have an end. That fact alone gave him something dangerously close to hope, which he tried to keep in check. He glanced at Arthur's letter again, and wondered what the Englishman had really meant when he'd sent Alfred his 'best wishes'.

"Yes," He told Hal, feeling the persistent wound in his left side open slightly and begin to bleed, "In fact, I feel great."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. The New York Draft riots, known at the time as 'Draft Week', was a period of unrest (generally placed on the week of July 13-16, 1863) in Manhattan in NYC that followed the enactment of the compulsory draft, the first in U.S. history (though to be fair the CSA began drafting before the Union did). Driven almost entirely by working-class white men, these riots began out of anger about the draft. Specifically, these poorer-class white men were angry about the fact that they would be compelled into service whereas much richer men would be able to pay the commutation fee of $300 (now worth somewhere in the ballpark of $6,000) and thus be exempted from service. However, the unrest quickly escalated into race riots, in which these same working-class white men protested the arrival of newly-freed black men who they perceived to be competition for work. The week/weeks were a very violent time, and over a hundred people died as a direct result, including several lynchings of black men. President Lincoln dispatched volunteer groups to the city in order to quell the rioting.
> 
> 2\. 'Greyback' was a union derogatory term for a Confederate soldier, referring to their typical grey uniform. However, this term was also used sometimes to refer to lice, so the insult here is twofold.
> 
> 3\. You really can use water + grains as makeshift glue. Oats is probably not the best choice, but seriously, flour paste (literally just flour+water) was a very common water-soluble adhesive used for centuries. Anyone who's let their sourdough starter dry out can attest that it becomes like concrete.
> 
> 4\. Charles Francis Adams was the U.S. ambassador to Britain during the war, and a huge part of his job was to make sure Britain stayed neutral in the war.
> 
> 5\. Gideon Welles was the U.S. Secretary of the Navy during the war.
> 
> 6\. William Lewis Dayton was the U.S. Ambassador to France during the war. Like Adams, he spent a great deal of his time trying to make sure France stayed neutral.
> 
> 7\. Grant here obviously refers to Ulysses S. Grant, the famed Union General who was also at this time engaged in the Western theatre of war and thus the closest to the French.
> 
> 8\. If you're wondering why Alfred has suddenly started feeling better and why Arthur has chosen now of all times to respond to Andrew, it is because of Gettysburg. Gettysburg was not only the turning point in the war from the American perspective, when it became clear that the Confederacy would likely not be strong enough to defeat the Union, it was also the moment when foreign powers began to lose interest in the Confederacy. Gettysburg was a resounding loss for the Confederacy when it happened, but the full ramifications of just how bad a loss it was would unfold slowly over the next year or so, until it became clear that a Union victory was virtually inevitable.


	17. November 1, 1863

**November 1, 1863**

**Chicago, Illinois**

* * *

"All ashore!" Crowed the crewman, cupping his hands around his mustachioed mouth to better shout above the crowded deck of passengers. "All ashore. Welcome to Chicago, ladies and gentlemen."

"Oh excuse me, sir," the crewman stopped when a passenger tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to find a young man, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, who seemed to be traveling alone.

"Yes, sir?"

"I have a ticket for a ship operated by this same company, tonight, bound for Buffalo," the teen said, "the _Endeavor._ May I have my things moved to the right cabin there?"

"Of course, sir, may I see your ticket?"

"Yes, here," the boy handed it over, and the crewman reviewed it expertly.

"Matthew Wiliams, Cabin 14B." He looked up and gave a smile behind his formidable whiskers. "I'll let the crew know straightaway, sir," he handed back the ticket, tipped his hat and continued on his way. "All ashore! All ashore at the Port of Chicago!"

"Thank you very much," Matthew turned back to the railing, where passengers both American and Canadian were pressing against the railing all around him to watch the skyline of Chicago grow closer. After a year in British Columbia, Matthew was being sent back East. Toronto was his final destination, where Arthur and his governors had been begging for answers in what appeared to be Confederate seditionists stirring up trouble along the border. However, since no one had told him exactly when to arrive in Toronto, he'd taken the liberty of a detour south of the border.

Matthew had been to Chicago once before, but it'd been decades, and the city seemed to have exploded since then. Coat tightly buttoned against the lakeside winds, Matthew had to hold his hat onto his head as he jogged down the gangway. Once on street level, the world was a maze of buildings and carts, carriages and pedestrians. Matthew reached into his pocket for the pamphlet stashed there, holding onto the paper hard so it wouldn't fly away in the wind as he read the street directions. _NORTHWESTERN SOLDIER'S FAIR—CHICAGO ILLINOIS—OCT. 27 THROUGH NOV. 7. COME SUPPORT THE BRAVE MEN OF THE UNION_

Finding the fair was not difficult, getting _into_ the fair was a bit more of a challenge. The grounds were swarming with people, largely women, girls, and older folks. Many had children running around underfoot, and all of them were crowding the tents so that Matthew had to jostle for a spot among the masses.

"Momma look, look, momma, momma, it's a _sword!"_ A little boy was jumping up and down and pointing up at a weapons display. A longsuffering woman knelt by him and took his sticky hand in hers and drew it away from the display.

"Yes, dear, my how vicious it is!" She plucked the child up and held him up for a better look as Matthew squeezed past.

"Can _I_ have a sword, momma?" This drew a laugh from his mother.

"Maybe when you're older, dear."

"You ought to hope he doesn't need them," Matthew whispered to himself solemnly, looking up and around at the lengthy displays. The curtained displays were replete with parade-worthy Union artillery: muskets, swords, trumpets, drums, even a few cannonballs—all polished and gilded and finely put out. And then, next to it, a display of spoils from the southern rebels: tattered battle flags, rusted swords, dirty and hideously chipped bowie knives, cutlasses, guns and bayonets.

"So savage," said a young woman, arm in arm with another young maiden and whispering as they passed.

"Truly, I've heard that all the Southerners are so."

" _He's not your brother any more than I will be his slave,"_ Matthew hurried past, letting the crowd's noise drown out the sounds of his memory.

"Fresh iced cream and strawberries," called a matronly woman from a stand nearby as she hoisted a new bucket onto the table. "Fresh iced cream and strawberries!"

"Excuse me, miss," Matthew went over, "how much?" he indicated the freshly scooped bowls.

"Twenty-five cents," she told him, and while Matthew's eyebrows raised at the exorbitant price, he didn't hesitate to fish around in his pockets for the coins. Just as he was about to deposit them in her upturned palm, he hesitated.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, glancing at the coins, "I only have Canadian—do you take…?"

"We take all kinds, dear," she assured, and he handed over the money. She whisked it away into an apron pocket and smiled at him. "Thank you, sir, for supporting our brave boys. Enjoy."

Matthew found a quiet corner where he could enjoy his iced cream and strawberries and watch the people mill around. Circus performers, Indians, musicians, hawkers and craftspeople hurried from place to place, surrounded by a sea of everyday people braving the brisk Chicago winds for the fair. The grand parade had been back in October, but with only a week left open, the fair was still packed to capacity, all money piling up in coffers bound for the Union Army. There were booths and tables packed with foods for sale, drinks, sugar treats and handmade goods. There was artwork and needlepoint, some depicting American heroes. The tent itself was bedecked in Union colors and flags galore, dripping from the tent poles and across every booth.

He knew that some of his people, much like many of Arthur's, wanted the Confederacy to claim victory and shatter the monolith of the United States. He knew that, intellectually, part of him should want it, too. After all, the United States could not annex Canada if it were beaten down by war and broken in half. Yet despite all logic of self interest, Matthew's heart went out to these Union families and all their men were fighting for. He shared too much in common with Alfred and his people to ever truly despise them, even when he knew he should.

"Oh, Al," Matthew said amid the noise. "I wish you could see this."

"And what about you?" snapped someone.

"Mother, _no,"_

"Huh?" Matthew looked up. A young woman—a widow, by the looks of her dress—was trying to shepherd away an older woman, who was glaring at Matthew at pointing with her thin walking cane.

"Pardon?" He said politely. "Can I help you, ma'am?"

"I'm so sorry," the widow began, hands full and eyes apologetic. "My mother-in-law is excitable, please forgive us, sir,"

"I said what's _your_ excuse, hmm?" Said the matron to Matthew, fighting her way over. "My boys, my sweet boys, they signed up, they fought for their country, they _died_ for their country, even before there was a draft. And you?" She jabbed her cane again. "A fit young man like you, standing here, eating strawberries and cream, what are you, a coward?"

"Not a coward, ma'am," Matthew told her firmly, holding his treat aside. "Only Canadian." The young widow turned red up to her ears, Matthew could see it even through her veil.

"I am _so_ sorry, sir," she pulled on her mother-in-law's arm. The older woman wilted in sudden embarrassment, but there was a sheen of deep hurt in her face that drove Matthew to pity.

"My brother," he said, before they could retreat too far. "He's an American. He's… he died in the war, too," he said. It wasn't a lie, after all. The widow's embarrassment turned to sympathy.

"Where?" She asked.

"Antietam." He glanced at the older woman, who had averted her eyes, looking sad. "I'm very sorry for your loss, both of you. I know it's not easy." Hesitantly, he raised his iced cream. "Victory to the Union," he said. The ladies smiled, gave a demure 'thank you', and quietly shuffled away.

Matthew spent the rest of the day milling about the fair, spending all seven dollars and fifty cents he'd packed into his coat pocket. He'd bought enough food for lunch and dinner, a tin of huckleberry sweets, a small handmade American flag, a gorgeous embroidered handkerchief set, and half a dozen other little treats, bits, and bobs that he did not need but could not pass up upon seeing the beseeching faces of their creators. If Arthur found out, he'd surely reprimand him for such extravagance, but Arthur was the furthest thing from his mind that day.

He returned to the port at dusk, laden with an empty wallet and pockets stuffed with knickknacks. All of his luggage was, thankfully, waiting for him aboard cabin 14B on the propeller ship _Endeavor._ Buffalo was two weeks away at best, and Toronto several days beyond that. Still, Matthew wasted no time. He went to the cabin's small writing desk and fished out stationary, a pen, and twine. He carefully packed together the huckleberry sweets, a handkerchief embroidered with a flourished blue "A", a handmade American flag—with all of its stars sewn back on—and wrapped them up in the fair pamphlet. He tied this up in twine, and in turn wrapped the whole package in the short letter he'd written:

_You people love you, Alfred. They even took my Canadian dollars!_

_I pray every day for an end to this war and your full recovery._

Quickly, he wrapped up the package in more twine and scribbled out Alfred's Washington townhome address before he could think twice. Buffalo's post office was weeks away, and there was no telling when Alfred would next receive mail, but Matthew couldn't lose his nerve. It was the first time he'd written to Alfred since his visit the previous year. Seven dollars and fifty cents Canadian was not much, but he hoped that all the love and support of Alfred's people would see him through his hardships, even as Matthew himself was busy with his own worries north of the border. Perhaps, Matthew dared to hope, he would be fully himself again when he ate the sweets.

It was dark out by the time the ship's whistle shouted above. As the vessel pushed away from Chicago and set a course for Lake Erie, Matthew rose and dressed for bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. The Northwestern Soldiers Fair in Chicago from October 27—November 7, 1863 was the first but definitely not the last fair of its kind. Put on by the United States Sanitary Commission, the fair was a fundraising event meant to purchase food and supplies for the bedraggled Union Army. It is of note that these events, which sprung up all over the Union, were put on almost entirely by women. The entertainment present at the events were arranged by society ladies, and the goods sold at the fair were usually handmade by homemakers, not unlike a modern bake sale or county fair. This first fundraising fair in Chicago raised around $100,000 USD, which in today's money, is somewhere in the neighborhood of $2,060,000! Never underestimate the power of 19th century housewives!
> 
> 2\. The Soldiers Fair (and other 'Sanitary Fairs' as they were called) did indeed involve huge parades, often of Union soldiers or veterans, musicians, etc. The displays of weaponry is also something that happened—fine, wonderful, 'civilized' Union armaments, and tattered, unkempt, 'savage' Confederate spoils of war. I think most people can agree that, all things considered, the Union was in various ways the morally superior belligerent of the Civil War, but that doesn't mean that they weren't guilty of some serious 'othering', massive biases against Southerners, and also, lest we forget, absolutely rampant racism. Mentioned in this chapter very briefly because I do not have the guts to get into it was the fact that, particularly in the midwest and on the plains, these fairs often involved artifacts of "Indian curiosities", a.k.a. stolen or purchased goods from local tribes that were put on display to gawk at. Some even put people on display, hiring or coercing members of local tribes to become involved in a kind of freak show. It's all very disgusting, really.
> 
> 3\. Oh, yes, the Confederates really did send people to the US/CAN border to stir up trouble in Toronto and other places! After Gettysburg and Vicksburg, the Confederates worked to do whatever they could to distract the U.S. Army from their southern enemy and provoke a fight between Canada and the Union. Not many people today know about this, which is in and of itself proof that their plan failed miserably.
> 
> 4\. It's worth noting that at this point in time, $1 USD = $1 CAN, which is a lucky exchange rate for Matthew. However, his measly little $7.50 in 1863 would today be worth somewhere around $150, so don't go thinking Matt is a cheapskate! He's really trying to help his brother out with what pocket change he has.
> 
> 5\. The Endeavor is an entirely fictional ship, but it is worth noting that by this time, propeller ships had at least partially replaced steamers ships in popularity for navigating the Great Lakes due to their more slender profiles, which allowed them to move more freely through all of the locks that connect the Lakes.
> 
> 6\. Huckleberry is a variety of berry native to North America. Though more prevalent in western regions, these berries can be found all around the Great Lakes and are common in both the U.S. and Canada. Dark red or purple in color and tart in flavor, these berries make excellent jams and jellies, and pleasantly tart candies. If you ever get the chance to try some huckleberry confectionaries, I recommend it!


	18. June 12, 1864

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Discussion of death.

**July 12, 1864**

**Washington, D.C.**

**Battle of Fort Stevens**

* * *

It was pitch dark in his cell, but Alfred was awake. He'd been awake for some time, now, but he had no idea how long it'd been. A small corner of his brain told him that it had been a long time—too long, but the void behind his own eyelids promised nothing but nightmares, so he stayed awake.

For months now, his dreams were always of the dead and dying. He felt them in their last moments, on the operating table, on top of their dead comrades, by the cannons, in the ditches, scared too stiff to move even as their commanders heralded the charge. Day in and day out, it was the same. The same pain, the same death, the same jolting blows of cannon fire. The phantom smell of blood and alcohol lingered in his nose from his dreams inside the butcheries they called hospitals.

The dreams had grown worse as the Confederates drew near, so he refused to dream at all. Eyes open, stomach empty, rocking gently to generate some sort of breeze to cool himself in the sweltering heat, he waited. Sweat dripped down between his shoulder blades and disappeared into the already-soaked fabric of his shirt. He licked his lip and thought he should probably drink more water, but moving would jostle his brain and make the voices ring louder against the sides of his skull, like the bell in St. John's church.

A not-distant-enough boom rattled the ground all around him and he jumped. There were shadows slinking around in the curved walls of his cell, hiding in the groutlines of the tiles and the corners where his eyesight faded, waiting for him to let down his guard. Colorful stars dotted the blackness, dancing like sparks across his vision before melting away. The slivers of light around his cell door, usually a welcome spot of brightness in his dim world, shone like a halo of fire, a reminder of his isolation, of his vulnerability, of a coming storm.

" _Has he even laid down yet?"_ asked someone outside, thinking they were speaking quietly.

" _He's exactly where he was yesterday, and the day before,"_ said someone else. _"I don't think he's moved an inch. I've had the boys check on him every hour or two."_

" _Christ."_

If he listened close enough, he could hear their thoughts take off in a sprint, down Pennsylvania avenue and into the river, running, running, away. It was so hot. Too hot, as hot as the August when his heart had burned, when the very building where he sat had burned to its foundation. It'd been so hot in the flames, choking him, smoking him out of his own body, killing him over and over and over again. He'd died so many times, too many times, enough times to fill the seas with the blood of his soldiers

 _Boom_ went the cannon, and Alfred jumped again, hands shooting up to cover his ears. It was too much, too close. It was bad enough with the battles were in Virginia or Maryland, when the fighting danced like razorblades along the seam of the sutured faultline arching down his left side, but now they were here, close and boiling in the District, and it was like a red-hot brand on his chest. He could hear every gunshot, every cannon fire, every shout and scream and dying wish. Montgomery county ached like a sunburn, and the violated borders of his Capital pulled on the twin cords of his neck until it brought the pain from his head down to his chest towards his heart.

" _Return fire! Return fire!"_

" _Cavalry line, reform!"_

" _Sharpshooter, sir, on the roof!"_

" _Surely he needs water. Has he eaten anything?"_

" _No sir, not since Friday."_

More gunfire; crumbling buildings; screams.

" _General Hardin! General, a message from the—agh!"_

" _Stand your ground!"_

" _He needs to sleep."_

_"He needs us to win."_

" _More ammunition!"_

_"Don't let them take another step, boys."_

" _More sharpshooters, sir, across the road!"_

" _Why won't he answer?"_

" _Do you think he died again?"_

" _Open the door. Let's at least make sure he's got water."_

A sound split the air like dynamite, a metal groan that became a human groan, humans dying all around, fresh-faced, untrained soldiers bleeding until all the sandstone in Washington was dyed red.

" _Mr. President, get down, now!"_

"Lincoln!" Alfred shouted, and was shocked to see that the door to his cell was open, and two guards were standing in front of him, startled and warily holding a bucket of water.

"Mr. Jones?" Said one. Alfred stared back, not sure if the guard was a figment of his imagination.

"Where's the President?" He asked instead. Even the imaginary ones answered, sometimes.

"Safe, sir."

"Are you sure? He's there," Alfred said. "He and his wife, they're watching, they're… a surgeon. He needs to be safe."

"A… surgeon?" whispered one guard. The other shook his head.

"We've brought you more water, sir," the guard set down the entire bucket, watching Alfred warily the entire time. "Would you like something to eat?"

Alfred's eyes wandered to the ceiling, where a shadow was waiting to eat the sound of his heartbeat.

"Alfred?"

"You should go," Alfred told the guards, eyeing the shadow that hid from the fiery light of the door, "I don't know how long it'll wait for. Maybe it's already burning."

The guards looked at each other, befuddled, before shuffling out of the door and locking it behind them.

"The battle will be over soon, Alfred, I swear," said the younger guard, with all the overdrawn optimism his youth allowed him. "Just hang in there."

Alfred waited for the shadow to descend, no longer able to tell waking from sleeping or battle from prison. Somewhere, someone was ferrying his President away from the battle, and the guns at Fort Stevens blazed on, rattling his bones with thunder and raining destruction down Georgia Avenue.

"We named this city for George," Alfred said loud enough so every scaffold, tile, and crane atop the Capitol dome would hear him, "and so help me God, you will not take her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> First of all, thanks for bearing with me! This chapter was a little different, but I wanted to spend some time on the psychological toll of the war on Alfred and use some more surreal-esque imagery to represent just how hard civil wars are on the nations.
> 
> 1\. The Battle of Fort Stevens was fought from June 11 through the 12th in 1864, and was the one and only time the Confederate Army breached the borders of Washington, D.C. The Confederate forces were about 10,000 strong, and while Washington ostensibly had at least three times that many, in actuality the bulk of their troops were untrained recruits, wounded, or other unsuitable soldiers. Therefore, D.C.'s defense was initially just under 10,000, making the two sides about equal in terms of manpower. D.C. was not well defended or fortified, and leaned on Fort Stevens, a fortification in the northeast of the city, for artillery support. The Confederates came into D.C. from the north, through Montgomery county, Maryland, near Silver Spring. They used houses in the district as perches for sharpshooters (snipers, essentially) to pick off Union soldiers. The battle ultimately resulted in a Confederate loss, and they retreated back up through Maryland and to Virginia. However, some Confederates still considered it a worthwhile venture. CSA Lt. General Jubal Early, the leading officer of the march into Washington, later commented "We didn't take Washington, but we scared Abe Lincoln like hell."
> 
> 2\. The battle of Ft. Stevens came in the middle of one of the worst heat waves of the summer, with no rain and temperatures above 90 degrees F (about 32 Celsius). This is still fairly toasty by D.C. standards today (and it's freaking humid in D.C., too, which makes it 1000x worse) but back then, before A.C. and when everyone was still fighting in wool uniforms, OUCH.
> 
> 3\. St. John's church, which opened in 1815, is about a block away from the White House. You know, the quaint yellow church from that "Oh, so America has a gestapo now" mid-protest photo op earlier this summer? That church. It's an old and beautiful D.C. landmark.
> 
> 4\. Lincoln and his wife stayed in D.C. for the entire battle, against the advice of many officers and advisors. They even went out to observe the battle on the 11th or 12th. They were at one point fired upon, and a surgeon standing nearby was shot and killed. It was at this point that Lincoln was sternly told to take cover, and then quickly whisked away to safety.
> 
> 5\. Regarding scaffolds and cranes on the Capitol dome: the Capitol building was still in the middle of construction during the war (as was the Washington Monument). You can find photographs of both structures from around this year, where you can see them unfinished. The main dome of the Capitol was not completed until after the war.


	19. November 12, 1864

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of suicide

**November 12, 1864**

**Washington, D.C.**

**Four days after the 1964 Presidential Election**

* * *

Alfred had never been much of a drinker. He drank beer, sure, and was known to enjoy more than his fair share of bourbon, but over the years he'd found it next to impossible to drink to excess. Perhaps it was his immortal nature, or some other ephemeral quality about his person, but drunkenness had never come naturally. Still, he wondered now if this is how drunkards felt when all hope had been stolen away, when all the alcohol in all the world had evaporated, and all that remained was tremors and the blinding cold to remind you that you were all alone.

He was so tired. More tired than he could ever remember, and more lost.

It was hard to believe that only four years ago, he'd been a decent sort of person. He'd dined in the White House, and entertained ambassadors from all around the world. He'd written to his allies and spied on his enemies, all the while wearing a dashing tie and keeping his hair in pristine condition. Now, he was sweaty, frozen, clothes ratty and riddled with bits of straw. A forgotten prisoner, unbathed and unkempt in a basement prison, forgotten by even those men who'd put him here.

It'd been four years ago that he'd first encountered Andrew, The Other. It'd been a while now since he'd last heard from him, but the threat remained omnipresent. His imprisonment was testament to that. Oh, how he wished he'd known sooner how catastrophic The Other would truly be, he would never have ignored it for so long.

Alfred shifted on the pile of straw and thought not for the first time that it had been some time since they'd replaced it. The straw was all but flat now, and just as sweaty and dirty as he himself was. But how could he possibly ask for new straw, in such a state? He leaned his head back against the cool stone of the cell and remembered a time when he asked for coffee, maps, and ink, and received them all. The day they'd deposited him here, he remembered asking for his books. _So long as I have something to occupy my mind,_ he remembered thinking at the time, _I can outlast this. I will be fine._ Oh, how naive he'd been.

He shivered and pulled his coat closer around him. They still weren't allowing him any blankets, fearing he might try to harm himself again, but they'd made an exception for a sturdy wool coat, which he now huddled under to keep warm. The underground spaces of the Capitol were warmer than those exposed to outside air, but the swampy grounds nurtured by the Anacostia kept the whole place damp, which let the cold find him and leech into his bones.

Time passed at a meaningless pace. Whether it was day or night did not matter. Whether he was awake or sleep did not matter. The only thing that mattered was the fact that each breath he took was one breath closer to an End; an end to his consciousness, an end to the war, and end to his life, it did not matter what kind of end it was, so long that it arrived in its proper time. He shivered some more, and wished that he would die or fall asleep so he would not have to feel himself shiver anymore. How had he forgotten how exhausting it was, just to shiver? There was no way he could fall asleep like this.

"Alfred?" said someone. One of the guards, probably. He should answer, but he was busy trying to figure out if he had any way to kill himself, so he could get some rest.

"Alfred, are you awake?"

Oh, he would do just about anything for a hot drink right now. His ribs ached both from shivering and from trying to stop. Another guard cleared his throat loudly.

"Sir, we need to come inside. You have a visitor."

That got Alfred to raise his head. The door creaked open and two guards let themselves in while their comrades stood watch at the door. Still hunched under his coat, Alfred did not move from his place on the filthy straw as he looked up at them, silent.

"Hands, please," said one guard, producing a pair of irons. Alfred did not know why they needed him cuffed, but he did not ask. He held out his hands, watching with detached annoyance as the guard had to hold his wrists steady because they were shaking too much from the cold. Once they were done, Alfred drew his cuffed hands back to himself, trying to warm up the cold metal irons with his own body so they would not sting so badly. He curled into a half-ball, not wanting to give up any heat if he could help it. Head and eyes pointed down, the only part of the guards he could see were their shoes. A third pair of shoes appeared in front of him, longer than that of the guards and polished to a midnight shine.

"Mr. Jones," said the newcomer, and Alfred's heart lurched. Slowly, he twisted his head to look up, up, up at the etched face of Abraham Lincoln. Alfred did not know what was expected of him, so he only said,

"Mr. Lincoln." Then, not needing to be told the news directly, he added, "Mr. President." If Lincoln did not seem surprised by Alfred's precognition.

"Your people have spoken, and I will serve," he said. I will not hide from you my great surprise at being allowed to persevere in this office, but I will tell you of my great relief, and the sense of urgency it instills in me to preserve this nation in any way I can."

Alfred tried to nod, but it probably looked like another shiver.

"I have also come to introduce your new Vice President," Lincoln stepped aside, and another pair of shoes, far more hesitant than any of those present, appeared. Alfred's eyes trailed up the legs and body that held them, until he reached the uncomfortable and incredulous face of Lincoln's Vice President, Andrew Johnson.

"I wish we could have met differently, Mr. Johnson," Alfred said weakly. "I'm afraid you've arrived at an unusual juncture in my life." He knew he looked disgraceful; he could smell for himself how filthy he was. "My apologies."

Johnson said nothing, and stared at Alfred with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. Alfred ducked his head. Not all of his politicians believed that he was who he claimed to be, _what_ he claimed to be. It had always been so. He did not have the energy to endure this man's repudiation.

"It is our task to serve this country," Lincoln said when Johnson remained silent. "Just as it is my duty to serve you, Mr. Jones." The silence stretched out between them. Alfred was, just as he always had been, existing here at the pleasure of Congress and the office of the President. Congress had been unable or unwilling to give him much compassionate care by dint of his volatile condition, and if Lincoln knew the gruesome details, he'd done nothing to alter Alfred's environment, so he must've believed this prison was, at some level, necessary. It made Alfred feel small and hopeless once more, and he tried to tuck the sleeves of his coat up over his hands, around the irons, to keep his fingertips from freezing.

"I have heard from your people, Alfred. I would hear from you: what would you ask of your government?"

It took a moment for such a question to register. When it did, Alfred's face crumpled and he tried not to cry. It had been years since anyone had asked him what he wanted. He drew in a shaky breath, keeping his head ducked toward the warmth of his own body.

"Win this war," he begged, voice cracking from disuse. "Please. Please get me out of this war. I want to go home. I want to see the sky. I want…" he had to stop while he waited for his chin to stop shaking; he told himself it was the cold. "I'm so lonely," he confessed. "And so tired. And so… so sick of dying, and waking up, and dying again. I'm sick of turning into… into _him._ I'm so tired, Mr. Lincoln, I—" he tried to stop the sob, so it choked out into a whine, which sounded even more pathetic. "I can't do this anymore. I just want to go home. Please, please let me go home _._ " He hid his face into the scratchy wool sleeves of his coat.

He was not expecting to feel the weight of a human hand on his head, nor for the hand to be so incredibly warm.

"It is, as it always has been, my sole aim to preserve this Union," Lincoln said quietly, patting Alfred's hair with incredibly awkward but sincere affection, despite how filthy it was. "Just as it is my aim to see you endure to that same end, Alfred. This war will end in your victory. That, I promise you. If it is the only and last thing I'm able to do for you, I will see that you return home."

Alfred was crying silently into his coat, wanting desperately to believe his president. He did not thank Lincoln for such promises, because words meant little in this war. Alfred did want to thank him for something, though, so he said,

"And hot water. It's become cold again, and I… if it's possible, I'd like some hot water."

"Of course." Lincoln must've shot the guards a stern look, because one of them hopped to straightaway and left the cell, presumably to fetch the requested hot water.

"Thank you," Alfred said at last. Lincoln gave his head a last pat before withdrawing.

"Courage, America," he said.

 _America._ It'd been years since anyone had called him that, and the name reminded him of life as it had been, as it yet could be. Alfred drew in a shivering, shaking breath and breathed it out again. Head still hidden in his sleeves, he nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> 1\. Fun fact: the area of land where Capitol Hill is located, along with the bulk of the federal downtown district of D.C., is actually a floodplain! The District's landmass is kind of 'bowl' shaped, and the downtown area is the bottom of the bowl. The Potomac and Anacostia rivers feed the floodplains there, and while it hasn't truly flooded in some time thanks to human intervention, the whole region remains incredibly wet and humid, which makes the summers feel hotter and the winters feel colder than they actually are.
> 
> 2\. Abraham Lincoln hated the nickname "Abe". If people called him that, they never called him that to his face. Various accounts exist of Abe calling others by their respective nicknames, or pet names in the case of his family, but others usually called him "Mr. Lincoln", even if they were close colleagues. Oh, also, yes, Lincoln was a very awkward man when it came to interpersonal skills and affection. He had few close friends, and those who knew him well described him as very reticent and secretive. Affection is not this man's strong suit! Poor, awkward Abe.
> 
> 3\. The fact that Lincoln won his second term in 1864 was actually quite shocking. He was not all that popular due to the length and cost of the war and the controversy of how he handled Emancipation. His opponent was the former U.S. General, George McClellan, who advocated for immediate peace with the Confederacy, even if that meant that slavery would continue in the southern states. Lincoln was, up to the election, quite pessimistic about his chances for re-election, and went through many contingency plans prior to Election Day to mitigate the fallout of his loss. He asked his cabinet to sign a letter that swore their unwavering loyalty to the Union, no matter the outcome of the election, and he worked with Frederick Douglas to formulate plans to get as many Black people out of the South as quickly as possible before election day, fearing that if Lincoln were to lose, the Emancipation Act would dissolve and all Black people behind behind Confederate lines would be trapped. So, while Lincoln is of course dedicated to serving the U.S., the fact that he could continue to do so was shocking to many, no more so than Lincoln himself.
> 
> 4\. Andrew Johnson is probably one of my top five least favorite presidents, for a lot of reasons, and it probably shows here. He was not actually that close with Lincoln, and was selected as his running mate mostly because his Tennessee heritage gave him appeal to southern-sympathizing voters. Johnson seems to me like the sort of man who would not only not understand what Alfred is, but would flat out not believe that Alfred was what he said he was. He's silent and standoffish here for that reason.


	20. February 6, 1865

**February 6, 1865**

**Letter from Matthew Williams in Quebec to Arthur Kirkland in London**

* * *

My Dearest Brother,

I know it has been some time since I last wrote to you, and for this I sincerely apologize, and hope you may forgive me. I would like to blame the freezing cold and its effect on my penmanship, but I do not dare. Toronto has been enjoying a mercifully mild winter, and having endured past winters in cities west of Lake Superior, I could not possibly complain, lest General Winter himself appear and punish me for such hyperbole. Unfortunately the primary cause for my distraction has been all this business with Confederates here in Toronto, and though I shall give you what news I have, that is not the essential reason I write to you now.

I know the news shall reach you before my letter, but I wish to tell you of my own great excitement upon hearing that the United States Congress has approved an amendment to their Constitution, which shall outlaw all slavery in all the states. I am not sure when the individual states will ratify this new decree—Congress has allowed the process to be thoroughly tedious in the past—but I am confident the Union states will embrace abolitionism with open arms.

With only one or two exceptions, the British newspapers here in Canada have been utterly pessimistic about the amendment. Those of us who've worked along the underground railway are of course delighted for our American neighbors to fully realize abolition after all this time, but many others believe the law will spark race riots and such unrest as is to rival the war itself. It seems an unbelievable notion to me, but I should appreciate your thoughts on the matter, if you are willing to share them. You can see perhaps better than I how my vision is tinted by my affection for Alfred, which I'm sure you find naive at times, but I genuinely believe that Canada has little to fear from a victorious United States. The Union may prevail, but he will not be at full strength, perhaps for some time.

As for Toronto, I shall preface my news by saying that all is well and the situation is wholly under control, but the last several months have seen some measure of excitement, much of which I trust you have learned of by now through my Governors. You will be amused to hear that the Confederate's primary mistake was, quite simply, being too American for discrete company. Scarcely a Tom, Dick, or Harry in Toronto is unaware of the Confederate outpost that has overrun the Queen's Hotel, for they have occupied the entire hotel and spend all leisurely hours of the day cursing the United States and talking, sometimes quite loudly, of their plans to bring about its demise. It cannot have taken more than a week for someone to wire New York, for since October we've had nearly just as many Union detectives in the railway station (conveniently across the road from The Queen's, I'm sure you'll be shocked to hear) as Confederates in The Queen's.

The only significant inroads towards victory made by these Confederate malcontents were launched and sunk quite quickly in November. I assume Lord Monck must've included the details in his report to Lord Palmerston: a group of Confederates set out for New York City from Toronto and attempted to start upwards of twenty fires in the city at the same time, most of them in hotels, as well as a theatre and P.T. Barnum's museum, or so I hear. At any rate, the firemen of New York made quick work of the fires that caught, but I hear most of the arsonists were unable to coax any flames to catch at all. I've been told they used Greek Fire to accomplish the task, but they must've concocted the stuff entirely wrong. It is all for the best. All but one of the culprits was captured by U.S. authorities in quick order. A lone escapee hid here in Toronto for some time, but soon after crossed the border and was apprehended. I believe his trial is ongoing; he should not hope for reprieve. The Union will hang him, I'm certain.

I know that many of my people, namely businessmen, politicians, and anyone with enough cash in their pockets to care is still enamored with the idea of Confederate victory—just this afternoon, I stopped by a coffee house in time to hear a Union man being heckled by one of the shop's well-to-do patrons. I know they have their own reasons for hoping for such an outcome, but I cannot wonder how they ignored the world around them. It is clearer to me now more than ever that when this war finally ends, as I hope it does soon, it will favor the Union.

You, sir, have been resolute in your letters regarding our neutrality toward the American situation, but I must confess as a private matter that I am much relieved that this war should end in Union Victory. Though many of my politicians have shouted themselves raw trying to convince me that two bickering neighbors is more amenable to my health than a monolithic one, nothing will convince me it is true. Alfred and I had shared peaceful relations for a long time before this war, and I am willing to work hard to recapture peace when it is over—even if later on Alfred decides to change his mind. I can and will be as convincing as I need to be. As I've already written, I foresee no immediate threat to Canada from the Americans after this war, and even if they should turn their eyes northward, I have every confidence in our ability to face them.

I assure you, I do not write this from a place of naivety. Canada is strong, and for at least at time, the United States will be weak. The next few years, I believe, will be a crucial test of our resolve to keep it thus. I know Lord Monck has already spoken to you about this exact matter at length, and I look forward to your next visit here so we may speak about it in person; I do miss the sound of your voice. The politicians here do not laugh at the same jokes you do, and I find their senses of humor increasingly dull. I am blessed by the protection of General Winter, though I begrudge the fact that his presence means I will not see you or anyone new from England until spring. I hope you are keeping well in Somerset—if indeed you are still wintering there—and looking after your hounds. I do not know if I shall still be in Toronto when next you visit, I shall endeavor to send along my most current address before spring.

In earnestness,

Your Brother Matthew Williams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. One of the first and most intense reactions to the 13th amendment from abroad was the fear that it would spark race riots. The British were particularly vocal about this possibility. They did not hold this fear because they were against abolition—Britain abolished slavery some fifty years before the States—but rather of how and why the US went about it. As has been discussed, Lincoln's motivations for emancipation were almost entirely utilitarian, and thus ending slavery was also seen as a utilitarian move made in the middle of a volatile war. Even very good decisions made during wartime can become messy. I don't blame them for being nervous—but this is still one of the most important amendments in the entire constitution.
> 
> 2\. No, seriously! There was a huge contingent of Confederate and Union spies stationed up in Toronto. Canadians in this region were actually quite fond of American southerners (Southerners tended to go to Canada to see the sights, tour, and spend their money, where as Northerners were often viewed as elitist, ne'er-do-well businessmen and opportunists), so when the war broke out and Confederates were looking for different ways to screw with the Union, they went up to Toronto and began to form groups of fellow Confederates with whom to plot attacks or sedition against the Union. This of course caught the attention of the Union, who sent up counter-intelligence agents to Canada. How Canadian officials felt about all of this is not entirely clear, but if it were me, I'd be rolling my eyes.
> 
> 3\. The attempted attack on NYC was committed by the so-styled Confederate Army of Manhattan, which was a group of eight confederate men. On November 24, 1864, they attempted to set 21 first in New York City, using Greek Fire (an infamous flammable substance made up primarily of sulphur, naptha, and quicklime, which is very hard to extinguish once lit). Although the fires were obviously quite alarming for local officials, the fires that started were taken care of and in many cases, the criminals were unable to start fires at all. It appears they were thwarted by a double agent. All eight were eventually arrested and tried for their crimes. The one who briefly escaped back to Canada, Robert Cobb Kennedy, was indeed hanged on March 25, and ended up being the last Confederate executed by the Union.
> 
> 4\. Lord Monck—or rather the Right Honorable Charles Stanley Monck, 4th Viscount Monck, GCMG PC—was, spoiler alert, the last Governor-General of the Province of Canada. He was also the first Governer-General of the Dominion of Canada. For those of you who are taking notes of foreshadowing, get out your notebooks.


	21. April 2, 1865

**April 2, 1865**

**Washington, D.C.**

* * *

Richmond, Virginia was burning, and Alfred Jones was agonizingly, exquisitely alive.

He was in throes of a terrible fever, but it was unlike the many fevers he'd endured since the war began. Fevers were usually the harbinger of prolonged visits by The Other, days or weeks of time where he had no control over his own actions. Usually, they disoriented him beyond comprehension and left him with huge gaps in his memory. There was always shivering, and hallucinating, and fainting, but not this time. This time, he was wide awake and lucid.

He could feel how hot he was, knew it was unnatural. He could feel how dry his body was, even when he should have been sweating. He could taste the delirium on his tongue when he swallowed, hear the blood pulsing in his head, too hot and too fast. He upended a bucket of water over himself and was shocked when it did not steam off of his skin. When he breathed in, he thought he could smell the smoke of the city burning across the Potomac.

The Other was coming to lay claim to him, one last time, and Alfred was going to be wide awake for it. Oh, it was going to hurt, he could tell, but he was determined to make The Other hurt more. He remembered when his other personality had first appeared all the way back in 1860, remembered punching the mirror when it'd happened. He longed for a mirror in this wretched place, just so he could look into the glass and see Andrew's horrible face and smash it to pieces.

As he had the thought, a surging feeling rose up from his gut, through his chest, and up the back of his throat, and suddenly he heard his own voice speaking in a furious southern drawl.

"If I cannot have this city," Andrew snapped, and Alfred gripped his hands, unnerved by the feeling of his own tongue moving without his permission, "Then God in heaven as my witness, neither will you."

"Burn it for all I care," Alfred shot back without hesitation. This confrontation had been years in the making. "Burn it to the ground, burn Richmond, burn Virginia, burn it all, burn whatever you like, because when this is over, you're going to die, and I'm going to rebuild everything you took from me."

"What, you think this will kill me?" Andrew laughed back, cutting Alfred off and seizing their face in a laugh. "I have the entire South. Texas. Tennessee. Even Arkansas. They're all mine, and you're going to have to rout me out of all of them if you want to kill me."

"No," Alfred wrenched back control, feeling their face flush with fever and exertion from tearing control of their mouth away from Andrew's will, "Your heart is in Virginia. _You_ are in Virginia. After I take it, you'll be nothing. You might've survived if you were a real nation, but you never were, you never will be. You're a parasite, nothing more, and I won't suffer you any longer."

"Burn it, then," Andrew yelled back, splittle flying. In the background of their brain, Alfred realized the guards must be listening. There was no telling what they were thinking. _He's gone completely mad,_ they probably thought, not knowing that he was more sane than he'd been in years, even with Andrew sidled right up beside him in this body. "Burn it all!" Andrew's voice rang off the sides of the cell. "Burn Richmond, burn Mount Vernon, burn everything from Chesapeake to Shenandoah! See what happens—I'll burn out your heart before you take it from me!"

"You're burning out your own heart," Alfred taunted, "I didn't set those flames, I didn't tear your capital apart. You wanted to burn the armory, but you burned the whole damn thing in your haste," maybe it was his imagination, but Alfred thoughthe felt a sweat break through the fever. When Andrew did not take control back from him, he added, "look at, it, _feel_ it, I know you can smell it, the smoke, I know you can feel the city crumbling. You thought you were retreating, but you're killing yourself instead."

"You," hissed Andrew, voice quivering, "you ignored me for years. You overlooked my states for _years._ I was powerful enough to challenge you before you even knew I existed. What makes you think you can cast me off so easily? What gives you the right to claim victory so easily?"

"Because I am the _United_ States of America," Alfred snapped back, flushing from fever and anger, "and I will not endure division any longer. You are no one. You are nothing. You are only me, a part of me, the darkest part of me that desires division above unity. You are a leech, a nightmare, five years of hell sent just to teach me who I am, but no more. Get out. Burn my city. Burn my countryside, I don't care, because when this is all over, I will take it back, I will burn you out, and you will be nothing but a memory to remind me of who I am, and why."

"You will have nothing left to claim," Andrew hissed. "You will leave the South with nothing."

"I will have it all," Alfred insisted. "Whatever you burn I will rebuild better and brighter than you have the capacity to understand. Now _leave."_

"I _am_ the South, and I will not be controlled by some-"

"You are _me,"_ Alfred yelled, louder than Andrew. "You are a whisper in my head, a feeling in my bones, you are one thought among millions, and I do not have to cede control to you any more than I must cede control to any other whim. You took my name, you took my life, you took my land, you took my people. No more. You have been heard, you have been weighed, and you have been found wanting. Get out of my head."

"You will live a hundred years before you see the end of me," Andrew promised.

"I will live a thousand years before you see the end of me," Alfred promised back, louder. "Now _get out_ , and don't you _ever_ come back."

And just like that, his mind fell silent in a way he hadn't known since before he'd met Lincoln. He fell back against the wall and sunk to the floor. He had no idea when he'd made it to this part of the cell, but he could hear himself heaving for breath and savored the sound. Sweat sprouted all across his body, on his chest, beneath his arms, on his forehead. The heat baked him, but he could feel the faintest draft of air cool against his face, and it felt like freedom.

He must've fallen silent for too long, because one of the guards said,

"...Mr. Jones, sir? Would you like some more water?"

"Yes please, Hal," Alfred croaked, in complete control of his own body. He swallowed thickly. He was still quite feverish, but he felt it'd broken. His stomach grumbled at him. "And something to eat, please," he said.

"Already, sir?" said Hal, sounding surprised. "Lunch was naught but two hours ago."

Alfred did not remember it. There was so much he did not remember, all time stolen away by Andrew and whatever ambitions he'd had left. But he saw things clearly now, saw himself not in half but in whole. He didn't know how long they planned on keeping him here in this cell, but God help him, he would live the days as himself, not another. He'd spent too many years eating to feed someone else's anger.

"Please," Alfred told Hal, hungrier and more exhausted and alone than he'd felt in years. It was ecstasy. "I'm starving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> 1\. On April 2, 1865, following a long siege against the city staged by the Union, the Confederate forces in Richmond, Virginia, the Capital of the Confederate States of America retreated from the city. As they left, they set fire to the local armories, supply warehouses, as well as many bridges in the city. This is a common strategy when abandoning important cities, but in the case of Richmond, the fires burned out of control and left much of the city in ruins. Because it signaled the effective (though not official) end of the leadership of Virginia to the CSA, the retreat from Richmond was a last gasp of the Confederacy as a whole. As is mentioned here, the CSA would live on in pockets of local armies across the CSA states and would indeed pose continued challenges to the Union army until the war was declared over in 1866, but when Virginia fell, the Confederacy, as an institution, fell. After Virginia was gone, the rest of the CSA really were just states in rebellion—and that's not propaganda, that's reality. The Union was coming, and they were coming to take it all back. The CSA states knew it, some of them just held on longer than others.
> 
> 2\. Aside from the abandonment and burning of Richmond, all the discussion of burning things also ties into the scorched-earth policy adopted by many Union troops in the South, most notably General Sherman and his March to the Sea, which was at this point several months in the past.


	22. April 9, 1865

**April 9, 1865**

**Washington, D.C.**

**General Robert E. Lee has surrendered to General Ulysses S. Grant in Appomattox Courthouse, Virginia**

* * *

Alfred slept, and for the first time in many years, he dreamed of nothing at all. There was no death, no war, no blood or mutilation. He felt no emotion, could not speak or move, heard without hearing, and saw without seeing. It felt like a better version of the void that awaited him whenever he died, but now he enjoyed a prolonged stay, untainted by the fear of resurrection. It was utter bliss.

There were people talking nearby, but their words meant nothing to him here.

" _Oh Christ, has he died again?"_

_"No sir, he's only sleeping."_

" _What, again?"_

" _He never woke up, sir. Didn't even wake up for lunch."_

The void moved in sourceless rhythms around him, caressing his hair like the hand of a loving parent, supporting his body in a weightless grip that made his brain float like he'd had too much champagne.

" _He must be exhausted."_

" _We need to wake him up. Mr. Colfax just signed the order."_

" _Mr. Colfax? Not the Vice President?"_

" _Mr. Johnson refused to sign. The President told Mr. Colfax to do it instead."_

The was a great creaking noise, and it sounded like a chorus of crystal cymbals coming in to percuss the strange music of the void.

" _Refused to—he's been trapped here for five years!"_

" _I don't think Johnson thinks the war is over."_

" _It's over enough. Mr. Jones? Alfred?"_

He continued to float along to the melody of silent music, even as someone shook his shoulder and wiped greasy, filthy hair out of his eyes.

" _Alfred, you need to wake up."_

The colorless sky and ocean were not separated here, and danced around him in swirls of cool and warm, massaging his weary bones with relief that tickled.

" _Alfred?"_

" _I told you, he's been asleep this whole time. You know he hasn't slept well. Now that it's over… maybe he's trying to make up for lost time."_

A sigh, which felt like the breeze.

" _Well then, help me lift him up. Get his feet. Careful of the door."_

" _Where are we taking him?"_

" _They've set up a tub down the hall in the south wing."_

" _Are we bringing him back here after, or…?"_

" _No."_

Waking up was completely unlike coming back to life, and this particular time felt less like waking up and more like a dream. He was still floating, arms and legs sluggish in a cloud of softness. Softness, he very slowly realized, was water. He blinked open his eyes. The stench of his cell was gone, and in its place was the sweet smell of soap and warm water. He was naked in a bathtub, and someone was gently pouring water over his head, shielding his forehead and eyes as they scrubbed soap into his hair. Alfred melted into the touch (how long had it been since he'd felt human touch?) and let out a small grunt of satisfaction.

"Is he awake?" Someone above him asked quietly.

"Dozing, I think," someone else whispered back.

They scrubbed his entire body and he couldn't feel embarrassed about it. They trimmed his fingernails and scrubbed underneath, and the feel of another pair of hands holding his own was so exquisite he wanted to cry. They wrapped him up in a soft towel and coaxed him out of the tub and onto a chair (a _chair!),_ where they combed and dried his hair, now long enough to reach his shoulders. One of them fetched a pair of scissors and told him to hold his head steady. As they cut away the ruined blond hair to uncover the short style he'd worn before the war, tears finally spilled down his cheeks.

"Sir?" said the man with the scissors, pausing mid-snip when he saw him crying. "are you hurt?"

"Shh," said another, softly. Alfred thought it sounded like Hal. A hand came to rest on his shoulder. "He's alright, just been a while, is all."

 _Thank you for not making me say it,_ he thought, and hoped Hal understood.

After the haircut, they tilted the chair back and shaved his face, which though still too young for a full beard, had over the years created a scraggly mess of hair across his cheeks and jaw. By the time they had him cleaned up and standing in a fresh set of clothes, Alfred was fully awake and alert. This did not help him control the tears that still misted his vision.

"Thank you," he told the men who'd taken such good care of him. His voice was hoarse from disuse, and he realized he must not have spoken to anyone in several days. "Thank you, I… I'm sorry that I-" his voice wobbed.

"None of that, now," Hal said. Alfred had never seen him in full light before, and realized now that the man must've been old enough to have grown children, perhaps even grandchildren. "Come along. The President has asked to see you for himself."

Alfred stiffened. "Here? Is that safe?" He glanced at his wrists, and then at Hal's belt, to see if the man was carrying irons with him.

"In his office." Alfred's eyes went wide as saucers. "The carriage is waiting outside."

* * *

Alfred could not stop the tears from flowing down his face. He was not crying, not exactly. His face was not screwed up in a grimace, and he was not sobbing or even breathing unevenly. His chin did not wobble and his voice did not shake, it was just that he could not keep the tears at bay as he looked out the carriage window into the endless plains of a sky he hadn't seen in five years, now cast pink and orange in a springtime sunset.

He was grateful that Hal was the one escorting him to the White House, because the older man seemed to read his mind better than his younger colleagues. He said nothing about Alfred's tears, or about how the nation could not tear his eyes away from the window and everything outside.

They reached the White House in short order, and Hal exited first, Alfred following. Absently, he gripped his wrists in his opposite hands, almost hoping someone would pull out a pair of irons. He was not sure this was a good idea, letting him near Lincoln. Haunted by hazy memories of the last time he'd come here, Alfred held his hands close to himself as the attendants led him and his guard further into the house.

"Right this way, Mister Jones," waved an attendant. Hal stayed behind, and Alfred looked helplessly back at him as he was ushered away, still holding his own wrists. Hal gave him an encouraging smile, and a gentle salute.

Then, he was being let into Lincoln's office. The President was reading a letter, facing the window. Seeing him, Alfred felt small. Lincoln's height always made him feel small, but the feeling was magnified tenfold now. After they'd bathed him, they'd dressed Alfred in a set of his old clothes, which were now several sizes too large for him. He hadn't realized how much weight he'd lost during the war, but the shirt and jacket hung off of him like canvas on a tentpole, swallowing him up whole. He had no doubt that he looked like a starved child.

The door clicked closed gently behind him, and Lincoln turned to see him. Alfred was stunned to realize how much the man had aged since he'd taken office, grey hair dusting black at the temples, wrinkles deeper than before. Then, for the first time since before his imprisonment, Lincoln smiled at him. Without a word, the President crossed the distance between them and handed Alfred the letter he'd been reading.

"General Lee has surrendered," Lincoln told him.

Alfred looked at the letter in his hand, trying to read the words and having to start again several times because he was reading too fast. When he finally took the time to read the news enclosed there, and the reality of the ink on paper finally sunk in, he cracked. Holding the letter in one hand, his other hand shot up to his face, and he wept.

The tears had been flowing all day, but now the sobs came in to join, huge, involuntary heaves that bent his back and shook his entire body. He felt the letter plucked from his hand, and Lincoln pressed a handkerchief in its place. Alfred stood there, desperately trying to stifle the sounds threatening to escape him when Lincoln said,

"You're not going back to that tomb. You're going to stay here, in the White House with Mrs. Lincoln and I. It's long overdue."

The childish wail of relief that came out of him was something he'd be embarrassed about later, but in the moment there was nothing he could've done to stop it. He pressed the handkerchief to his nose and mouth and felt as though he might fall. Lincoln grabbed him by the elbow and kept him standing.

"This ought to be a day of celebration, Alfred," said Lincoln, uncharacteristically pleased. Alfred realized he'd never known the man during peacetime. "I can only hope these are tears of joy."

Alfred looked up at the man through tears, and immediately had to blink away another sob. "Yes," he hiccuped, nodding, "yes, I know, I just…" he realized that with the war over, he was free. He was alive, and whole, and Andrew was gone for good. He was _free._ "I… thank you," he said, whimpers escaping him again. He tried to cough to disguise it. "Thank you."

Lincoln drew the nation into a gingerly, stilted hug. "There could be no other end, my friend."

America continued to weep, but as his president had hoped, they were only tears of joy.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> 1\. The surrender of Confederate General Robert E. Lee at Appomattox Court House on April 9 was not the only surrender it took to end the Civil War, and it would be some time before all Confederate forces had surrendered to the Union, however, this was the most important and pressing surrender. Once Lee surrendered, the rest of the CSA (and the Union) knew it would only be a matter of time before all of the Confederate armies came crashing down.
> 
> 2\. Schuyler Colfax was the Speaker of the House at this time. The Vice President, as the President of the Senate, would've been the one to sign Alfred's release order, but as stated here Johnson was skeptical of letting Alfred roam free. So, Lincoln asked Schuyler, the next-in-line in terms of Congressional authority, to do the honors instead.
> 
> 3\. As you all have probably noticed by now, this fic will continue on past the end of the war itself. Stay tuned for the fallout.


	23. April 10—15, 1865

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: discussion of death, some blood.

**April 10—15, 1865**

**Washington, D.C.**

* * *

The days that followed General Lee's surrender were, for Alfred, like a dream.

April 10th was a chilly Monday morning, but it felt like a festival day. If a single soul in Washington had missed the news that the war was over, Edwin Stanton's 500-gun salute at dawn might have clued them in. If they hadn't heard _that_ , then surely they could not have failed to notice the crowded masses that flooded the streets of Washington to cheer, shout, sing, and leap about, celebrating the Union victory. Thousands flooded to the White House, clamoring for Lincoln to make an appearance. When at last the President appeared in an upper window, Alfred joined Mrs. Lincoln and the children at a separate window to spy down on the crowd and listen to the ruckus.

"I am very greatly rejoiced to find that an occasion has occurred so pleasurable that the people cannot restrain themselves," Lincoln said, and the crowd cheered. "I suppose that arrangements are being made for some sort of a formal demonstration, this, or perhaps, tomorrow night," Alfred could tell the man really had no idea _what_ was planned or who was planning it, but the crowd didn't seem to care.

"We can't wait!" someone shouted.

"We want to do it now!" Chorused another, and others laughed.

"I, of course, will be called upon to respond, and I shall have nothing to say if you dribble it all out of me before," Lincoln chided, to the amusement of the crowd. Then, after peering keenly down, Lincoln's voice adopted an almost playful tone, a sound Alfred had never had the opportunity to hear save for in the last day and a half. The President said:

"I see you have a band of music with you. I propose closing up this interview by the band performing a particular tune which I will name. Before this is done, however, I wish to mention one or two little circumstances connected with it. I have always thought ` _Dixie_ ' one of the best tunes I have ever heard. Our adversaries over the way attempted to appropriate it, but I insisted yesterday that we fairly captured it." The crowd erupted into applause, and Alfred could not help it when he smiled. "I presented the question to the Attorney General," Lincoln explained, "and he gave it as his legal opinion that it is our lawful prize." Whoops and hollers echoed around the throng, and Alfred could hear Lincoln smile. "I now request the band to favor me with its performance."

And off they went, instruments crooning the lively melody of _Dixie_ along with dozens or hundreds of voices singing along. People danced, even cramped as they were. Soon, _Dixie_ gave way to _Yankee Doodle,_ and Alfred's smile was too wide to hide. Lincoln, having retreated halfway back into the White House, beckoned the young nation over so he could stand by the open window and better hear the crowd.

"I expect this particular melody may be closer to your heart than _Dixie,"_ the President said quietly, so only he would hear. Alfred smiled up at him.

"Maybe," he admitted, "but I'm glad you like _Dixie._ Washington hated _Yankee Doodle._ Said it got stuck in one's head far too easily."

At this, Lincoln laughed—actually laughed—and turned back to the window as the music began to fade. They raised three cheers for General Grant and all under his command, and three cheers for the Navy, and at last Lincoln bid his farewell to the masses, who hurried off elsewhere. At dinnertime, Alfred learned from the President himself that the crowd had returned to the war department to cajole a similar public audience out of Secretary Stanton. Remembering Stanton as a stern and taciturn fellow, this made Alfred laugh rather rudely at the table. No one scolded him for it, all of them equally relieved to see their nation smiling again.

The following day, Lincoln returned to the same second-story window to address the crowds at greater length, discussing in detail his vision for the reunited Union and her wayward southern states. Alfred did not join Lincoln at the window, but this time listened quietly by the fire where the crowds could not see him, but where he could watch Lincoln's resolute figure from behind. Reconstruction, as Lincoln called it, would be a lengthy, complicated, and no doubt fraught process as the Union reinstated its authority in the rebel states. However, the state of Louisiana had already made several goodwill gestures to ease this transition, and Lincoln planned to use the state as a starting point of the healing process.

In the privacy of his own mind, Alfred remembered his last fight with Andrew, and his promise to rebuild the states ruined by the Confederacy stronger and more beautiful than before. Watching Lincoln stand in front of the crowd with assurance and vision, he thought he could almost see it happening before his eyes.

Spending more time in the White House meant that Alfred not only saw more of Lincoln himself, but more of Lincoln's family, as well. Mary Lincoln, Abraham's wife, was a witty and outspoken person, unlike the carefully calculated character of her husband. Of the four sons she'd had with Abraham, only two were still living, and Alfred had recently learned that one of them had died of typhoid only a few years ago. This explained to him why Mary took to Alfred like a mother hen to a chick, constantly feeding him, and watching him, sending his clothes for mends and new tailoring, making sure he had enough blankets at night and double helpings at breakfast. It was more attention and care than Alfred knew what to do with, but he appreciated her compassion more than he could say.

Though their eldest son, Robert, was still across the river in Virginia seeing to the aftermath of Lee's surrender, the youngest Lincoln, Thomas, or as Alfred better knew him, 'Tad' was all too eager to re-enact his brothers' descriptions of Lee's surrender and the heroism of General Grant and his armies. Alfred enjoyed spending time with children of all sorts, and so entertaining Tad became one of his favorite pastimes at the White House. It was an excellent excuse to run around outside, and to avoid the smothering responsibilities that had landed him in a cell for five entire years.

Though Secretary Stanton resented Alfred's lack of involvement in the post-war planning, Lincoln seemed to understand. He insinuated, more than once, that it would soon be time for Alfred to return to his duties at the Capital—particularly when it came to addressing international affairs—but for the present time seemed happy to let Alfred pursue as many distractions and diversions as he pleased, so long as it meant that he could smile again.

General Grant's return to Washington came about in great fanfare and theatrics, but it was the return of Robert Lincoln that brought the most smiles to the Lincoln family. Alfred met the man only briefly, but they spoke long enough for Robert to confide in him that his father the President was relentless in his insistence that Robert complete law school.

"I think it would suit you," Alfred told him amicably. This seemed to please Robert, and Alfred thought not for the first time how odd it was that children tended to heed the praise of outsiders more closely than that of their parents.

In the afternoon, Alfred watched over Tad while Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln took a much-deserved private carriage ride about the city. Upon their return, Mary found her nation and her son sprawled out on Alfred's bedroom floor, engaged in a fierce tournament of marbles. Mary shooed her son out of the room before she waved Alfred over to hand him a slip of paper.

" _Our American Cousin_?" He asked, reading the flyer curiously "Is this a… a play?"

Mary nodded, smiling. "As the tension of the past days falls behind, Mr. Lincoln and I thought we might all benefit from some lighthearted amusements," she explained. "You most of all. I've heard you enjoy theater, and I hoped you might agree to join us,"

"Of course I will," Alfred grinned before she could even get the last words out. Mary smiled back.

"Good. I've taken the liberty to have a new waistcoat and jacket done up for you—I'll have them bring it in shortly."

The carriage ride to Ford's Theatre was loud only because Alfred made it loud, chattering about his excitement to attend a theatre again, and how theatre was always one of the first casualties of wartime, and what a shame that was because it kept morales high. He related the plays he'd first enjoyed as a child, and how Washington had been fond of opera and how hard it was to find good theatre for years after the War of Independence.

"It's like a dream," Alfred smiled, watching out the window as the theatre drew close. "Five days ago, at war, and now at the theatre. This century truly is miraculous!"

Mary laughed at such an outburst, but Abraham allowed himself a wry smile when he said,

"You may speak too soon. I do not know if Mrs. Lincoln would have told you, but this is an English play."

"I shall endeavor not to judge the theatre too harshly for selecting it," Alfred announced cheerily, hopping out of the carriage after Mary. "Besides, it's all _my_ actors performing, so how bad could it be?"

They met Clara Harris and Major Henry Rathbone inside, and introductions were made mostly for Alfred's benefit. An awkward moment passed where the Lincolns commented on how General Grant and his wife as well as Secretary Stanton and his wife were invited to the play, but had turned down the invitations for other pursuits and had privately chided the President on the dangers of making public appearances so soon after surrender. Alfred was happy when the minute passed and they were ushered to their box.

Quite a hubbub grew when the crowd spotted Lincoln, and the orchestra struck up a lively rendition of "Hail to the Chief". Lincoln bowed to the crowd before taking a seat, and then, the theatre fell dark and the play began.

Alfred was not quite sure what to make of the play. The main character seemed to be mocking every poor stereotype of Americans held by the English, but then again, it was all a farce, so the English received no better treatment than their transatlantic brethren. Alfred took significant joy in laughing at the idiocy of the brainless Englishman, Lord Dundreary.

"Arthur would _hate_ this," he found himself saying, grinning like a madman.

"Arthur who, dear?" Asked Mary. Abraham chuckled and patted her hand in a 'never-you-worry' gesture.

As often happened when placed in a theatre, Alfred found himself utterly entranced by the stage. Even for a farce, the script moved quickly and he was happy to remain focused on the actors and their animated dialog even into the third act.

"I am aware, Mr. Trenchard, you are not used to the manners of good society," said Mrs. Mountchessington, a wheedling English character that Alfred quite disliked, "and that, alone, will excuse the impertinence of which you have been guilty." The play's protagonist, Mr. Trenchard, waited until the older woman was retreating before he called back:

"Don't know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal—you sockdologizing old man-trap."

The audience burst into raucous laughter, and Alfred would have, too, but he was preoccupied by a sudden and rushing sense of _bad_ that grabbed hold of his spine by the neck and seemed to haul him bodily out of his trance. He glanced over to the President, and found him smiling alongside his wife.

Then, there was a gunshot.

Alfred's ears rang. The sounds all around him died away: the crowd's laughter and cheering, Mrs. Lincoln's scream. Major Rathbone was struggling with someone nearby, and poor Clara Harris was seeking cover away from the viewing windows, but Alfred's entire world was focused on the fallen body of his President, a man he'd only truly known for the last few days. He could not see Lincoln well in the dark of the box, but he could smell the blood and gore without having to see it in full light.

There was a crash, and a shout in something that might've been Latin, and the commotion in the theatre below seemed to finally catch up to the reality upstairs. Before Alfred knew what was happening, there were people all around them. There was a physician holding Lincoln's head together with his hands, calling for assistance.

They escorted the women away. Someone was attending to Major Rathbone, who'd been stabbed. They moved the President out of the box and out of the theatre—his stature proved a cumbersome obstacle. Alfred followed them to Peterson Boarding House across the street, moving through the night in a daze. They placed the president in a bed there, having to lay him diagonally across the mattress because he was too tall for the bedframe.

Mrs. Lincoln was wailing. Edwin Stanton arrived, and shortly thereafter banished her from the room for her hysterics. Had he been more cogent, Alfred would have protested such callous behavior, but was instead taken aback by how even Stanton's normally-stony expression was pinched with acute concern. Robert Lincoln arrived. Senator Sumner. Generals. Officers. Alfred could not remember them all, because the room was too dark and the air too thick with the smell of blood. They had to replace Lincoln's pillow several times through the night because he would not stop bleeding. Each time, the white down came away stained and sticky with red so dark it was almost black.

Shortly after sunrise, President Lincoln breathed his last.

"Now," said Secretary Stanton, "he belongs to the ages."

Alfred, who lived the ages alone, said nothing.

The morning passed in an impenetrable fog. They returned Lincoln's body to the White House, and throughout Washington churches rang their bells in mourning. Alfred did not realize he had blood and worse splattered across his brand new jacket until he was asked by a sheepish White House aide to change. The only other clothes he had in his room were his old things, all of them baggy and untailored, only some of them readily pressed. He found what black garments he could and put them on. As he was wrestling with his tie, the same aide arrived back at his bedroom to summon him to the President's office.

Andrew Johnson had been inaugurated just an hour ago in his residence in Kirkwood House, they explained. The new president was now preparing his inaugural remarks for a nation suddenly thrust into mourning. His eyes were puffy, his hair freshly shorn, and on his face was an expression that inspired every fearful notion that Lincoln had chased away. Alfred was let into his office, and the door shut behind him. Johnson stood, and looked the young nation in the eye. It was not what Alfred would call a friendly exchange.

 _This is wrong,_ he thought.

"Mister Jones," Johnson said, stilted and businesslike. "I do not pretend to understand what you claim to be, and it may be many years more before I may finally comprehend the provenance of your… condition,"

_This is so wrong._

"But it has been explained to me that, in the fulfillment of my duties in this office as your President, that you shall be expected to work alongside me." He extended his hand towards Alfred. Alfred could only stare at it, every fiber of his being screaming out for the universe to right itself, for Lincoln to return through the door, to reveal that the last day had all been a cruel trick after all and that none of it was real.

"Mister Jones?" Johnson said, and Alfed realized he was still staring at the man's hand. Mouth opening and closing like a fish, Alfred found he had nothing to say. Suddenly, it was not only Johnson's stare that was stifling, but the White House, and Washington, and the Union altogether.

"I realize we did not meet under favorable circumstances," Andrew was saying, hand still extended, "But I know your good will meant the world to Licoln. I should be much encouraged to know that I have that same good will for myself."

Tears, having long abandoned Alfred since the day's tragedies had begun, now came to the fore of his vision. His heart was pounding out of his chest, breaking itself into pieces. Before he knew it, his feet were moving. He turned away from his president's outstretched hand, threw open the office door, and ran.

He did not stop running until he left Washington far behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> 1\. So there are a LOT of historical details in this chapter and I'm not sure I can remember or detail them all, but please know that if something happened in this chapter that actually happened in real life, I have done my damnedest to detail it here as it actually would have happened.
> 
> 2\. The April 11 speech at the beginning of this chapter was verbatim the impromptu speech Lincoln gave to the celebratory crowd—even the exclamations from the crowd were taken from contemporary newspaper reports! And yes, the band did play Dixie, followed up by Yankee Doodle. The bit about Washington disliking Yankee Doodle is, unfortunately, my own invention.
> 
> 3\. The summary of Lincoln's April 12 speech was, hopefully, accurate, as the actual thing was too long to include even in part.
> 
> 4\. The Lincolns had four sons, as mentioned. The second eldest died of tuberculosis in 1850, the third eldest died of typhoid fever in 1862, and though I know this may be heartbreaking for those who don't know, but young Tad will end up passing away early at the age of 18 in 1871, due to what many historians believe was heart failure.
> 
> 5\. Their eldest son, Robert, was 22 at this time and was serving as an officer (away from the fighting) with General Grant in Virginia. He was present at Lee's surrender, and returned to Washington at the same time as the General.
> 
> 6\. The Lincolns were indeed advised not to go to Ford's Theatre on the 14th, because many officials thought it was too public and too risky so soon after the South's surrender.
> 
> 7\. Yes, the is the play that Lincoln saw on the night his assassination was Our American Cousin, which is a farcical play written by an English playwright and premiered in New York in 1858. And yes, the line related here was the exact line (in the middle of the third act) after which John Wilkes Booth shot the President. Booth chose this line specifically because it usually drew the loudest laugh of the entire play.
> 
> 8\. Mary Lincoln was not present for her husband's death, because she was in fact asked to leave by Secretary Stanton, who thought her hysterical crying was making things worse. Mary Lincoln had what at the time would have been something of a volatile (perhaps bipolar, some historians have suggested) personality, and was not always the most effeminate wife in terms of demure behavior. How she was treated after her husband's death is a real travesty, and if you want to be filled with feminist rage, I suggest reading up on Mary Lincoln's life, personality, and particularly her life after the war.
> 
> 9\. Lincoln did have to lie on his deathbed diagonally, because he was so tall (he was 6'4", or 193 centimeters). And they did in fact have to replace the pillows multiple times due to the bleeding from his head. At least one, probably more, of these pillows have been preserved by various agencies.
> 
> 10\. Andrew Johnson was sworn in as President on the morning of April 15. There are rumors that Johnson tried to visit Lincoln as he lay dying, and that Mary Lincoln screamed at him and demanded that he be turned out of the house. There are also rumors (reported in newspapers at the time) that Johnson got inebriated that night and woke up with puffy eyes and hair matted and muddy from being outside, but these rumors are unsubstantiated.
> 
> 11\. The quote "Now he belongs to the ages" is an actual quote from Sec. Stanton upon Lincoln's passing.
> 
> 12\. Probably a lot more details I'm missing. If you have questions, just ask!


	24. April 20, 1865

**April 20, 1865, 10 A.M.**

**Telegraph from Francis Bonnefoy in Paris to Sir Arthur Kirkland in London**

ARTHUR,

=DID YOU SEE NEWS. AMERICAN UNION PREVAILS, CONFEDERACY SURRENDERS APRIL 9=

-FRANCIS

* * *

**April 20, 1865, 10:45 A.M.**

**Telegraph from Sir Arthur Kirkland in London** **to Francis Bonnefoy in Paris**

FRANCIS,

=OH, THANK CHRIST IT'S OVER=

-ARTHUR

* * *

**April 20, 1865, 4:00 P.M.**

**Telegraph from Francis Bonnefoy in Paris to Sir Arthur Kirkland in London**

ARTHUR,

=YOU OWE ME TWO HUNDRED FRANCS=

-FRANCIS

* * *

**April 20, 1865, 4:30 P.M.**

**Telegraph from Sir Arthur Kirkland in London** **to Francis Bonnefoy in Paris**

FROG,

=E.T.C. REFUSES TO WIRE THE LANGUAGE I WROTE TO YOU. I OWE NOTHING, I AGREED TO NOTHING=

-SIR ARTHUR KIRKLAND

* * *

**April 20, 1865, 4:45 P.M.**

**Telegraph from Francis Bonnefoy in Paris to Sir Arthur Kirkland in London**

MON COEUR,

=YOU AGREED IN FALL OF 1861, I HAVE DAY AND TIME RECORDED IN MY JOURNAL.

FOR WHAT IT IS WORTH (200 FRANCS, WHICH I SHALL COLLECT UPON OUR NEXT MEETING) I AM GLAD YOU DID NOT LISTEN TO SLIDELL OR MASON=

-TON AMOUR

* * *

**April 20, 1865, 5:15 P.M.**

**Telegraph from Sir Arthur Kirkland in London** **to Francis Bonnefoy in Paris**

PAILLART,

=I WILL TREAT YOU TO A REASONABLY-PRICED DINNER AND NOTHING MORE.

I AM GLAD, TOO.=

-ARTHUR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. If you find the tone of this chapter jarring, check the dates, compare them to the events of the last chapter, and please note that despite this being the age of the telegraph, there is still a 10 to 14-day delay in communication from North America to Europe. There was actually a brief three-week period in James Buchanon's presidency where same-day communication would have been possible. The first transatlantic telegraph cable was laid back in 1858, and for three vastly celebrated weeks, America and Britain were united by telegraph. However, the 2,500 mile-long (~4000 km-long) cable broke after three weeks of use. The second cable, laid in 1865, would break before it could be completely towed across the Atlantic. The third cable, which established a durable connection, would not be laid until the following year, going into operation in the summer of 1866.
> 
> 2\. The Franc was the standard unit of currency in France, and was in use from the country's Revolutionary period (1795) up until 2002, when they adopted the Euro.
> 
> 3\. E. T. C. stands for Electric Telegraph Company (points for creativity to the founders), one of the dominant telegraph companies in London. Most telegraph companies forbid users from transmitting profane or "ungentlemanly" language.
> 
> 4\. MON COEUR = "My Heart", TON AMOUR = "Your Love"
> 
> 5\. "PAILLART" can actually be translated several different ways, all of them at least mildly rude, ranging from "vagabond" or "beggar" to "tramp" or "bastard". Using the word is actually a clever trick by Arthur to sneak past ETC's profantify policies, because the word "Paillart" is an antiquated term, drawn from the 15th century Anglo-Norman dialect of French. In the 19th century, "Paillart" would have most likely been interpreted as a name rather than an insult.
> 
> 6\. Yes, Arthur and Francis do sound like an old married couple. Give them another 100 years and a few world wars together and they'll be even more insufferable.


	25. April 21, 1865

**April 21, 1865**

**Letter from Sir Arthur Kirkland in London to Matthew Williams in Toronto**

* * *

My Dearest Matthew,

I hope this letter reaches you safely, for I am sending it to your home in Toronto without knowing whether you will still be there. I deeply apologise for the absence of my letters this spring. Your latest letter contained some serious matters which, knowing that you are such a kind and conscientious soul, I think may have taken some courage to compose to me. I want to immediately put your nerves at ease and insist that I have not been ignoring your letters, nor have I been brooding upon the matters you raised therein, as perhaps you also suspected. In fact, it was only this past week that I received your letter from February, an unconscionable postal delay which I must blame, or so I'm told, on the unseasonably icy seas that stand between our shores. I've become so accustomed to using telegraphy on this side of the ocean, such delays as seemed revolutionary mere decades ago now feel barbarically tedious. It is astonishing, truly, how quickly one becomes accustomed to speed. I should very much like the transatlantic communication cables re-established sooner rather than later. The Arctic is ever a seasonal nuisance.

Having explained myself, I must now express my great jubilation and, if indeed it is appropriate, congratulations to you and your entire continent for reaching the end of the Americans' horrible war. This very morning, when I received the news of General Lee's surrender, I was so relieved I nearly dropped my tea saucer—biscuit and all—on my lap in order to pick up the paper. With the American situation finally coming under control, and the unpleasantness in Denmark having reached a peace end without my having to get involved, I feel like I can breathe easily for the first time in years. Moreover, I am encouraged to hear of your progress in the case of Toronto. Surely now that all their brethren are in full retreat, these 'Confederate malcontents' will leave you in peace.

The backlog of winter mail is still coming in from America, and I have yet to hear a word of your brother. You are bound to know before I do how he fares in the aftermath of the surrender, and I pray that you tell me whatever you learn. I can only imagine his relief outshines mine ten to one, but am starved of information, and have had no real news of him since the war began. Waiting now for the dust to settle will be a test of patience. Parliament is, I'm sure, arguing already about when we may resume trade with the Southern territories of the United States (oh how good it feels to write of it thus), but I am more interested in how Alfred himself fares. If you see or hear of him, please tell me, though you mustn't let him know I've asked this of you. I am sure he remains stubbornly angry with me over the Alabama affair. It is very petty of him, and you ought to tell him so, if the chance presents itself.

As for the concerns raised by Lord Monck, many of his prognostications surrounding the American threat are rendered moot by a Union Victory—at least for now. That being the case, in the leisurely time afforded to us by a long-awaited peace in North America, I have much to discuss with you regarding this issue. However, I think it is a conversation best left until we meet again face to face. Lord Palmerston and Lord Monck alike are still undecided on the matter, and shall no doubt subject me to an unwelcome lecture if they find out I speculated on their plans in my letters to you.

To this end, I am pleased and, if I may say, determined to invite you to summer with me in Westmorland, where we may discuss this and a great many other things at our leisure. The countryside is heavenly in the summertime, and offers significant opportunities for outdoor pursuits, of which I know you are fond. After such a trying season west of the Atlantic, I'm sure your government would happily grant you leave. Think it over and do let me know as soon as you are able, so that I may make arrangements posthaste.

Your Ever-Devoted Brother,

Arthur Kirkland, GBE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> 1\. Winter travel by sea was always difficult in the North Atlantic, even in the age of steam ships! Even into the middle to late 1800s, crossing the northern Atlantic was made difficult by ice and unfavorable weather. I actually have no idea whether or not 1865 was a bad year for this in particular, it's just part of the story.
> 
> 2\. You heard me, Arthur was so happy to see Francis' telegram, he almost dropped his biscuit. Not his tea, though. Not even Francis is worth that.
> 
> 3\. "Unpleasantness in Denmark" refers to the Second Schleswig War, which took place from February to October in 1864. To make complicated history very short, there was several provinces of land at the base of the Jutland peninsula that were essentially in a joint custody agreement between the German Confederation and Denmark, but unfortunately that custody agreement was pinned to one particular man, who died childless and plunged the region into a succession crisis. The Danes had in 1863 incorporated the region into the Danish kingdom, which violated the London Protocol, which was an international agreement held by all of the major European powers of the time, including the United Kingdom. This sparked a war between Denmark on one side and Prussia and Austria on the other. So, while Arthur was not directly involved in this crisis, there was significant anxiety introduced into Europe in 1864 as continental borders continued to shift along tides of violence.
> 
> 4\. Westmorland is a historical name for the region now associated with England's Lake District, which is not only a stunning part of the Northern English countryside, but is a popular summer destination known for its National Park, excellent hiking, and wonderful views.
> 
> 5\. Oh look, Lord Monck is showing up again. I wonder what that could mean...


	26. Chapter 26

**May 2, 1865**

**Letter from Matthew Williams in Toronto to Sir Arthur Kirkland in London**

* * *

My Dearest Brother,

Your letter has reached me with fortuitous timing. I am indeed still in Toronto, but will not be so for long. I am meant to be catching a train to Quebec tomorrow morning. After I read your letter, I straightaway wired Lord Monck inquiring whether or not I may be spared for the summer. When I explained to him why, he first insisted that I must accept your invitation, and then immediately after insisted that I must return to my capital to finish as much work as I can before leaving it to him. You would think that he has no underlings upon whom to depend when I am away in other places—perhaps he wants to punish me ahead of time for having a lovelier summer than he? I cannot speculate. I can, however, thank you profusely for your generous invitation, which I am honored to accept. It has been far too long since I've seen England, and I look forward to speaking with you, there is much to discuss.

This is, unfortunately, the only happy news I can offer you in this letter. Your mention of postal delays directly before you inquired after Alfred was, as I'm sure you see now, horribly ironic. I must assume that by the time that you receive this letter, you will have long since heard news of President Lincoln's assasination. It happened on the 14th of April, in the evening, but I did not hear of the event or its tragic outcome until several days later. I was, in fact, composing a letter to Alfred himself to congratulate him on Lee's surrender (of which I had only just then learned) when I received a telegram with the news. News of an assassination, it seems, travels along Toronto's wires faster than that of a surrender. I never finished the letter, and am still trying to compose a suitable greeting to him considering all that has happened. In the last year, I think Alfred has endured more than I have in the last century. I haven't the slightest idea what to say to him now.

Unfortunately, my news grows only worse from there. Not only was President Lincoln taken from the Earth in a violent and untimely way, the Americans have managed to lose track of Alfred. Vice President—now President—Johnson took office not a day after Lincoln passed. Not quite two weeks later, I received an urgent wire from the White House. I cannot impart to you the panic that filled me upon receipt of such a message, for I have never met Mr. Johnson and had no understanding of his intentions towards the Empire. Fearful of a rash declaration of war or some other ill news, I was astonished, then, to find that his telegram was a cry for help.

Alfred is missing, it seems. He fled from the White House shortly after Mr. Lincoln's death, and has not been seen since, even in the outer reaches of Virginia where officials have been asked to look for him. They wired me, of all people, in a last-ditch effort to locate him. I was remorsefully unable to aid their search, just as I am unable to provide you with the news you seek. Though I realize the death of his august leader must have been devastating beyond compare, I cannot fathom what must have transpired to send Alfred adrift in such a manner. I have never known him to flee from anything, let alone his own people. Perhaps there is much to his war that I did not properly understand. I do not know completely what the war took from him, or with what remains.

I wish I had better news. Please forgive me for keeping this letter short. Mrs. Girard, the housekeeper here, is badgering me to pack my bags so that the footmen may prepare them for the train. I must pack my stationary away soon or she's sure to come back and scold me. My address in Quebec is the one you know. Please let me know which port I ought to call when I depart for England, and I shall send you notice before I disembark. I look forward to seeing you, and shall bring you whatever news I am able.

With apologies and overflowing affection,

Your Brother Matthew Williams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> Shockingly, I have no real notes on this chapter. We've covered most of the historical content here already, now it's just a question of what on earth happened to dear Alfred. Only two parts left to go!


	27. July 4, 1866

**July 4, 1866**

**Letter from Alfred Jones in ? to Matthew Williams in Quebec**

* * *

Dear Mattie,

I must start this letter, as I so often must, with apologies. Unfortunately, I owe you such a list of apologies that I do not know where to begin. I shall start, then, with matters of business before matters of the heart. I was shocked and indeed quite furious for both our sakes to hear of the repeal of the Reciprocity Treaty. Though it does little good to say so now, I would like you to know that such a reversal was not my idea nor an idea I would have favored, had I known about it beforehand.

I must express similar dismay over news of raids on British forts along our border made by some of my own discontent Irish Catholics. I know you must grow tired of hearing this from me, but I assure you that these radicals do not represent my own sentiments. While I will tell you plainly that all thoughts of Arthur leave a bitter taste in my mouth, I harbour no vitriol for you or your countrymen. I have not been in Washington in some time, but knowing Congress as I left it, I am sure there have been one or two Senators saying outlandish and alarming things regarding you and I. I hope you will not listen to them.

I must also extend my apologies for how you were treated when you visited me in '62. I admit I remember very little of the encounter. Even the parts in which I was present remain hazy in my memory, and cut off quite sharply in a moment of panic when I realized that Andrew (I do know if anyone had ever told you the identity of my alter-ego, that is, the Confederacy) was going to take control. I was only told days later of how he attacked you, though I was much heartened to hear that you escaped unscathed. I cannot possibly impart to you the depth of my enduring embarrassment, shame, and regret over the entire affair, and hope that you may forgive me for such tresspasses. The fact that you visited me at all speaks volumes to your kindness, and your presence that night was appreciated in ways I cannot express. I know you understand what it is like to return from the void alone; I had never been so grateful to see your face.

Finally, it is with similar hope, though perhaps a naive hope, that I ask you to accept my sincerest apologies for not writing to you for so long. I do not know what news you've had from Washington. Shortly after Andrew Johnson's hasty inauguration last spring (I was not even present for the event, something I find more insulting the longer I think of it), I left Washington. I have not been back since. Thankfully, I was able to stop by my home on Jenkins Hill and, among other things, collect the mail you've sent to me over the years. I cannot communicate to you how touched I was by your letters, in particular by the gifts you sent me from Chicago in '64. The huckleberry sweets were delicious. I wish I had saved them for longer, but you know I haven't the self control. I've kept all your kind words with me even as I travel (which I have been doing quite a lot) and have been happy to reread them on dark days. I regret that it has taken over an entire calendar year for me to work up the courage to write back to you. It is perhaps a sign of my own weakness, in both heart and mind. So much has transpired in the last year alone, let alone the last ten, even now I do not know precisely what to say about it all. I can only apologize once again for the grief I know I've inflicted upon you, it was never my intent.

I wish I could tell you exactly where I am, but I have it on good authority that all of Washington is determined to find me and haul me back to the Capital so that I may help Johnson with his terrible plan for Reconstruction. To avoid this fate, I must maintain a certain level of secrecy which I'm sure you'll find irritating. I cannot find it within myself to return. The Capital feels no longer like a home, but a cage. Though I've left that wretched tomb-cell behind, still there is no shortage of congressmen—and now, even a President—who would poke at me as if from behind bars, goading me to go this way or that, to snap or cower to the tune of their whims. It is stifling beyond comparison. I have been caught up in the politics of the East for too long. The wounds on the hills of Virginia are still fresh, the burns of Georgia not yet healed. I need time away like I need air to breathe. It has been too many years since I've had leave to fully connect with my people, with my land.

Out here, I can breathe freely. The sky is wide and never-ending, and at night the field of stars is so thick that the land itself fades away. It makes me feel as though I belong not to the Earth, but to the heavens themselves, where I can float in a sea of starlight and look down at our continent from a distance too far to see any remnants of war. Perhaps this sounds fanciful to you, but I think not; I remember when we used to stargaze along the banks of the Ontario, when we were both small _._ Do you remember how we would go out when the wind was still, so the water made a perfect mirror of the stars? We would set paper ships out to sail and watch them ripple across the constellations, pretending they were flying to the moon. I hope you remember the feeling of those nights, for it is how I feel now. Even as my body still suffers (some days I wonder if these festering wounds will ever fully heal), open air, solitude, and time with my own people—people who've lived their lives far removed from the war—is clearing out the cobwebs of the last five years.

Perhaps I will return East soon, to deal with the inevitable failures of Johnson's plans. Perhaps I will wander even further. Either way, I hope to resume my old habit of writing to you. I will not be staying in any city that you know, nor at any of my properties. Instead, I've enclosed the address of an inn where I at times stop by to collect news and mail. I implore you to keep this location a secret from all people, especially anyone from Washington (or Quebec, for that matter). I am addressing this letter to your house near Quebec. I do not know if you are there or elsewhere—there's been little Canadian news in the papers since before the war, and you can imagine that journalists here are slightly preoccupied with our own problems.

Should this letter reach you at all, I hope that it finds you well in mind, body, and soul, and not too put upon by Arthur. He asks much of you, and you have always been far too good to him. I imagine he is plenty occupied by his Empire and, perhaps, making warships for the enemies of other trading partners. Should you see him, I hope you'll pass along the message that this war didn't kill me. In fact, you may pass along the message to anyone who asks. Today, I celebrate my 90th birthday as a Republic. I survived Arthur, I survived the Confederacy, I'll outlive slavery and Reconstruction and whatever else the world throws at me, God willing. It will take a lot more than this Civil War to kill me and keep me there. I will celebrate my centennial next decade, and then I will celebrate my second centennial, and my third. I am determined not to fade from this earth, even as my body aches and groans with the trials of these recent days.

It is all but a passing moment, and here under the open skies, I am finally remembering the strength that has made me who I am today. I know you have the same strength hidden in the depths of your quiet resolve, and am grateful to endure the ages with your companionship even from afar.

Your loving and very-much-alive brother,

Alfred Jones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. The Reciprocity Treaty between the USA and Canada (also called the Elgin–Marcy Treaty) was signed in 1854, but was terminated by the United States in 1866. The American motivation behind ending the treaty was partially because the trade benefits of the treaty were lopsided in Canada's favor, and partially out of anger over Britain (and by extension, Canada's) Confederate-sympathetic role in the Civil War. For purposes of narrative, I have been severely sugar-coating or outright ignoring American sentiments that were hostile to Canada at this time, but postwar America was not overly fond of their northern neighbors for the Empire's tacit support of the CSA.
> 
> 2\. The raids mentioned to British forts along the border was actually the first of the Fenian raids, which went on for some years. They were armed raids made by the Fenian Brotherhood, who were and Irish Republican organization. Ostensibly, the purpose of the raids was to pressure the British Empire to relinquish its grip on Ireland. Although unrelated to the Civil War and not sanctioned by the USA, the Fenian Raids were largely ignored by Washington and local officials until after they happened. Many believe the US turned a blind eye to the raids because of the sour relationship with the Empire at this time.
> 
> 3\. Regarding senators saying "outlandish" things, this is actually a specific reference to an event that would happen a few years after Alfred wrote this letter. In 1869, during negotiations of the 'Alabama Claims', that is, the United States' demand for war reparations from Great Britain in repayment for their manufacture of warships for the Confederate Navy, Sen. Charles Sumner, then the chair of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, suggested that if Britain could not make the suggested payment of $2 billion (Now worth about $38.3 billion today!) in cash, they should instead hand over the entirety of Canada to the United States. This, of course, never happened. After international arbitration, Britain did pay reparations (of about $15.5 million, which is worth about $330.6 million today). So when I say that people were afraid the U.S. was going to find a way to annex Canada, I'm not kidding.
> 
> 4\. 'Jenkins Hill' is actually Capitol Hill. This is one of the older neighborhoods in D.C., and though it is called Capitol Hill now (and likely was in 1866) was originally called Jenkins Hill, named for the family that owned the land prior to the incorporation of the new U.S. Capital. Alfred here is reverting back to its original name, perhaps out of habit.
> 
> 5\. Although Alfred does not specify where he is, in my head I like to think he's roaming around the frontier towns of the Dakota Territory.


	28. July 1, 1867

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I set the goal for myself to have this story finished before Election Day. I've done that. Now, for any of you who are U.S. Citizens of voting age, and you haven't voted already, GO VOTE TOMORROW. The future of our democracy is in the balance, and Alfred is counting on you to keep him out of a redux of the worst years of his life.

**July 1, 1867**

**Ottawa, Dominion of Canada**

* * *

Arthur Kirkland was not someone Matthew would normally describe as "matronly" in any context, but he was someone who was used to wielding a considerable amount of control. Today, that need for control manifested itself by making him fuss like a newlywed Baroness hosting her in-laws for the first time.

"Ah, and the menu," Arthur snapped his fingers, drawing Matthew from his abstractions, "has it been finalized?"

"It was approved by Lady Monck this morning," he reported, waylaid behind Arthur as he ducked out of the way of a kitchen trolley. Arthur continued his march down the hall, and Matthew had to jog after him.

"You've seen it?" Arthur asked before Matthew was quite caught up.

"Yes, and before you ask, yes, it's all written in English—except for dessert." Arthur cast him a look.

"What's for dessert?"

" _Dacquoise ganache et fraises."_ Arthur turned to him with a skeptical expression.

"Strawberries?" he asked.

"Yes, Lord Monck's chef has served it before to much acclaim."

"Hmm." The Empire soldiered on, looking down at his notes as they emerged into the dining room. "Oh," he said, suddenly remembering something. "You gave my notes to Mr. Martins regarding the seating chart didn't you? Councilman Bellecourt and Councilman Turnell had a falling out over–"

"Over cards last night, yes, I know, we've moved their seats away from each other."

"It's only–"

"See here," Matthew produced a chart and handed it to Arthur. "Mr. Bellecourt won't even be able to see Mr. Turnell, and Lady Renoult is a wonderful conversationalist, I'm sure he won't even think of cards."

"Good, good," Arthur scrubbed his hand over a non-existent beard, eying the chart. "Is it best to have Lord and Lady Monck seated thus? Is the table wide enough for two?"

"It was Lady Monck's idea." Matthew grinned. "If you must know, she and Lord Monck tested out the arrangements yesterday for practice."

"And what about this side here?" Arthur pointed, immune to Matthew's good cheer. "There's one more guest on this side than on ours. Surely such an imbalance will–"

"Arthur," Matthew cut in, gently putting both hands on Arthur's shoulders until the elder man looked up from his notes. "Everything's going to be fine."

Befuddled for a moment by Matthew's adamance, Arthur blinked away his worries and nodded. "Of course. Yes, I…" he glanced down at the seating chart. "Of course." Matthew dropped his hands from Arthur's shoulders and shifted from foot to foot.

"You're… you're not making a mistake, you know," Matthew said, fighting to meet Arthur's eye. "With all…" he gestured vaguely. "I can handle it. And dinner, too," he said. Arthur looked surprised by his sheepish confession.

"My dear boy," he reached out and took Matthew by the hand, and waited for the colony—no, _Dominion—_ to meet his eye. "I could never have any doubts. I'm sorry for fussing."

" _Angleterre,_ you would fuss if you were hosting tea with only yourself for company," Francis Bonnefoy, already dressed in an immaculate black silk brocade waistcoat and a brilliant blue tie, came sweeping into the room. "Pay him no mind, _Mattieu,_ he will fuss until the day he drops dead."

"And wouldn't you like to see that," snapped Arthur, casting a glare back at his European critic.

" _Non,_ " Francis protested, putting a hand to his heart in feigned offense. _"Tu es trop amusant pour taquiner."_

"Get stuffed, Frog." This only made Francis grin.

"You mustn't speak like that at dinner tonight, _mon cher,_ what will the ladies think?"

Matthew stood awkwardly aside while the two bickered like schoolchildren. He wondered if it had been a poor idea to invite Francis in the first place. He was undoubtedly the outsider here, surrounded on all sides by Englishmen and Canadian aristocrats—who were almost invariably English by birth. The Frenchman had made quite a splash on the Atlantic crossing, apparently, and had charmed (or seduced, Arthur's language had not been clear) half of the British contingent and made sworn enemies of the other half before they made port. Under which category Arthur classified himself, Matthew had no way of knowing.

In truth, he'd insisted on inviting Francis for wholly selfish reasons. Francis had raised him when he was very young, and still looked down on him because of this, always seeing him not as a man or a country, but as the infant he'd left on the banks of the _Fleuve St. Laurent_. Should Matthew's future hold any independent relations with France, he was determined to make clear well ahead of time that he was neither infantile nor guileless, and would not fall for Francis' Continental charms. Secretly, Matthew thought Arthur would be proud of him for exhibiting such foresight, but first he'd have to make sure the two Europeans didn't kill each other in his Governor General's dining hall.

"Can I help you with something, _monsieur?"_ Matthew asked, managing an exasperated tone just sweet enough to be polite.

"Ah, yes," Francis tucked his flawless hair behind an ear and blinked away Arthur's insults. "I have come down to ask for fresh linens and a basin of water, to freshen up before dinner. I could not find a maid, and so, _je suis ici._ "

"Oh," Matthew frowned at the air. "I'm terribly sorry about that, of course. Let me, um, I'll see to it and have it brought your room," Matthew said, and stepped away.

"As if you need any freshening up," Arthur drolled as Matthew retreated out of the room. "You're already primped and preened like a goddamned cockatoo."

"A flatterer, as always," Francis smiled at him, and Arthur scowled. Francis stepped out of the dining room into the long main hallway, and Arthur followed him.

"It does not hurt to look one's best in fresh company," Francis said. "It has been some time since I've been this side of the Atlantic, longer since I was this far north. It is far grander here than I had ever dared to hope, all those years ago." His tone was so wistful and humble that Arthur was genuinely caught off guard. "Mattieu has grown up well. You must be very proud."

"He's still young," Arthur demurred, for he would not be an Englishman if he took a compliment at face value, "but yes, he's done admirably." This made Francis chuckle, and Arthur took immediate offense. "What?" he demanded.

" _Ça ne fait rien,"_ Francis said. "Only… surely you would have noticed, _mon ami,_ that Mattieu is now taller than us both?"

Arthur's eyes snapped to Matthew's retreating form. The american nation was near the end of the hall, now, ducking and apologizing his way past members of staff as they hurried to and fro, preparing for the evening's festivities. His face and figure looked unchanged from the many years Arthur had known him, but looking at him now… Christ, he _was_ tall, wasn't he?

"I hadn't noticed," Arthur said at last, still staring as Matthew disappeared. Francis eyed him sidelong.

"I assure you, _he_ has," he said, and kept his face poker-still when Arthur turned to glare. "He will not follow the path blazed by Alfred, never fear. I meant only that you've made the right choice at the right time. These American nations… they grow like weeds."

At this, Arthur finally breathed out a laugh. "That they do." A footman carrying a massive tray of tableware edged past them to get to the dining room. "Come," Arthur motioned his old friend, "we might as well wait in the gardens. This house is too damn small for so many staff in one day."

Once in the southeast lawn, the noise and bustle of the house faded away. In its place was the crunching of gravel on the path they walked, and the buzzing of bees coming to call at the garden's collection of flowers.

"Speaking of Alfred," Francis said after some time, "I don't suppose he ever responded to the invitation?" Francis knew all he needed to know when Arthur released a massive sigh.

"No," The Empire said, sounding exhausted. "I warned Matthew that he wouldn't, but he got his hopes up even before he posted the letter."

"They have always been close," Francis mused.

"And I've never discouraged it, no matter how irritating it can be. God knows this world has too few nations who get on well with their brothers. But Alfred is… well, he's _Alfred."_ Arthur looked over at Francis, reining in his expression so he did not look as invested as he felt when he asked, "I don't suppose you've had any news of him?"

" _Non,_ " Francis replied, watching the trees up ahead sway and hiss under a strong summer breeze. "After Napoleon ordered troops from Mexico, I travelled to Louisiana, hoping to meet him there, but my intelligence that he would be in New Orleans was mistaken. Wherever he's gone, he's hidden himself skillfully, and deceived many people to cover his tracks."

"Matthew tells me he's out west, but refuses to say exactly where." Arthur scoffed. "He could be halfway to Russia by now for all I know. I understand his need to get away after—well, after everything, but this continent is so damn vast," Arthur complained. "He could be anywhere." Francis smiled.

"It is an incredibly American escape plan, you must give him that." One corner of Arthur's mouth twitched up into a smile. "Do not tell me you would not do the same thing, _Angleterre._ He learned his worst habits from you."

"Why you–" Arthur scowled, and then scoffed, completely missing how Francis' smile grew. "I haven't the time to catalog the ways you're mistaken. I would never run away from my responsibilities at such a time."

"Not on land, at least," France said meaningfully. " _Seigneur Corsaire_." England closed his mouth with a click, and France allowed himself a chuckle. He reached over and brushed the hair away from Arthur's right ear, poking at the lobe where a dimple remained from a centuries-old piercing. Arthur slapped his hand away.

"Get your hands off me," he groused.

"You should take up wearing it again," Francis said, still eyeing his ear. "The emerald one brought out your eyes beautifully, far better than that horrible tie." Arthur ignored the compliment and looked down at his dark green tie, and then back up at Francis.

"What's wrong with my tie?"

"Nothing, if you were dressing for a funeral."

"It's green, not black."

"It would be more fashionable if it _were_ black. It clashes with your jacket enough to drive a man to tears. Borrow one of mine for tonight; I have a beautiful gold one that I think would suit you."

"I'm not wearing your gilded French finery, keep it to yourself."

"Please, _mon amor,_ you and I both know that over half of your wardrobe comes from France."

" _Casse-toi,_ you absolute trollop," Arthur said, and marched ahead.

Arthur's use of French took Francis so off guard that he burst out laughing, sending a cloud of startled chickadees fluttering from the rosebushes.

* * *

The ball that evening was a wonderful affair. Though small in venue and in guests, the mix of Canadian and English representatives—and one interloping Frenchman—made for lively conversation and livelier dancing, particularly after the staff distributed aperitifs in the ballroom. Lord and Lady Monck presided with smiles for all of their guests, and by dusk, even the more reluctant Englishmen seemed to be in good spirits. Though Rideau Hall was hardly big enough for a house party, let alone an actual ball, the space felt warm and airy like the best ballrooms on the Continent.

"It is your good influence here that must keep everyone so cheerful," Arthur said when Matthew found him in a rare, complimentary mood by the hors d'oeuvres. "Truly, I've never known a people as pleasant as yours. I'm very lucky to call you my brother."

 _Brother._ Not 'little' brother, just _brother._ Matthew tried not to smile too wide as he walked away to speak with another of his guests. The entire gathering was, after all, in honor of Matthew and his new status as a Dominion. The celebration itself had been Lord Monck's idea, and while Matthew had assumed Arthur would be against it, instead he'd surprised everyone by insisting on attending in person. Unfortunately, the collection of diplomats and councilmen who'd crossed the Atlantic with him had balanced the evening's tone on the tightrope-thin union of jubilation and politics.

"Now my boy, you must learn how to be a good country for her majesty," one of Arthur's diplomats had decided to condescend to the nation at one edge of the ballroom. "I suppose we'll see what you're _really_ made of now that you can't cling to Sir Kirkland's apron strings, now, won't we?"

"Don't worry," Matthew had smiled, the emotion never quite reaching his eyes. "I have three centuries of practice. Perhaps Sir Kirkland can regale you of the details."

Thankfully, such verbal sparring matches were largely unnecessary, and he received more congratulations and well wishes than he did insults.

The pre-dinner dancing was relatively short lived, and soon the party was called into the dining room for dinner. Lord and Lady Monck took their seats at the head of the table, while Arthur, Matthew, and Francis took the seats of honor on the less-crowded side. As they sat, Arthur caught Matthew looking longingly towards the wine trolley sitting at one end of the room. It was only when Arthur saw the spare table setting sitting therethat he realized why. The spare name card was turned away, but Arthur knew what it said.

"Come now," he said, giving Matthew's arm a pat. "You know you will celebrate with him later. I'm sure his next letter will be thick as a book with purple prose." This made Matthew smile, and he nodded an unspoken apology to Arthur. Then, he did a double take and frowned.

"Is that new?" he said, indicating Arthur's fashionable golden tie. "The color suits you." Arthur scoffed and looked away. His face seemed pinker than before; the yellow tones in the tie highlighted the fact.

"Yes, I seemed to have spilt cigar ash on the other one."

"Oh, that's too bad. Do let me know if you'd like to have our launderess see to it." On Matthew's opposite side, Francis grinned to himself but said nothing.

Dinner commenced to great acclaim, and even Francis, ever the food critic, did not seem to have anything poor to say as they moved from soup to appetizer to salad. They were just beginning to set out the main course when Mr. Martins, Matthew's ever-faithful butler who'd travelled down for the occasion, stepped quietly into the room, eyes urgent as he spoke with the lead footman. The footman nodded and allowed Mr. Martins to pass. Careful to not interrupt the table staff, he stepped up to Matthew's elbow and bent low to whisper in his ear,

"For you, sir," and hand him a slip of folded paper. Matthew looked up at the man questioningly, but the butler only smiled and melted into the background as men of his profession were trained to do. Matthew read the note, and his eyes shot wide. He turned around to look at Martins.

"Right now?"

"Yes, sir. At the garden door." Matthew looked down at his plate and rushed to fold up his napkin as politely as he could before practically launching out of his chair.

"Thank you Martins–um, my apologies, Lord Monck, Lady Monck, um, I'll… please continue, I just need to, um, I'll return shortly," He said, and nearly tripped as he extricated himself from his seat. As their honored guest left the room in a rush with his butler following closely behind, the dinner party waited in confused silence until Lord Monck smiled and wished them to enjoy their meal. While the aristocrats tucked into the roast duck, Francis' eye drifted over Matthew's seat and noticed he'd dropped the note in his haste. Careful not to draw attention, he plucked up the paper to read it. Arthur saw him.

"Well?" the Englishman asked quietly. Francis's eyebrows shot towards the sky, and when he met Arthur's eyes, his were alight with surprise.

" _Amerique,"_ he said.

* * *

"God, this was a bad idea," Alfred said to himself, right arm gripping his left sleeve awkwardly as he looked around the darkened estate. He could hear activity and chatter coming from inside, and the windows were alight with the warm glow of oil lamps and candles. It was not a massive estate, certainly, but compared to the prairies and mountain ranges Alfred had called home for the last two years, it was a castle. There were too many lamps here, too many roads, too many people. "It's probably half over already," he grumbled under his breath.

A sudden noise made him turn around to see if anyone was watching him, but it turned out to be just a horse and buggy some ways down the hill, clopping along the paving stones. He watched them pass to make sure they did not see him.

A much louder noise made him whirl back around, this time to an open door and a person silhouetted by the light inside. Matthew stared at him in silence, mouth open but not moving. With every passing heartbeat, the quiet grew more and more awkward, and Alfred grew more and more desperate to put himself out of his misery.

"I'm sorry," was the first thing he said. "I know it's really late, I'm not trying to be rude, honest. I got your letter kinda late—I wasn't in town until… well anyway," he rubbed the back of his neck and looked down at his shoes—Christ, his shoes looked horrible, scuffed and dusty. "It's a long train ride over here, and I came as fast as I could, but, obviously I'm running a little late, and–"

There were two quick thumps as Matthew's feet found the steps, and then suddenly Alfred was pinned in place by the fiercest hug he'd had in nearly a decade.

"You're here," Matthew said, breath stirring the hair by Alfred's ear. "Oh my God, Al, you're _here._ You came." Frozen by the overwhelming sensation of a hug, it took a moment before Al's arms remembered was to do. He reached around Matthew's middle to hug him tight.

"Of course I came," Alfred fought his chin up to escape the smothering lapel of Matthew's dinner jacket so he could talk. "I wasn't going to miss it. I'm sorry I'm so late."

"You're not late, not at all," Matthew pulled away, and didn't hide it when he had to wipe at his eyes. "Come, come inside. We're having dinner, I'll have Mr. Martins set out your plate." Matthew tugged on his twin's sleeve and practically dragged the other nation through the door.

"You really don't have to, I'll be fine," Alfred protested, "I just came to see you. I'm hardly presentable for dinner, I'm filthy. I can't meet your Governor like this."

"Then let's get you changed. Arthur and Francis will be so happy to see you!"

"Arthur and _Francis_ are here?" Alfred panicked. Matthew only pulled him upstairs and down the hall. Once in the quiet of Matthew's bedroom, he threw open the doors of the wardrobe.

"Right, I didn't bring over that many outfits, but these should get us through the night."

"Mattie, I can't wear your clothes," Al said sheepishly.

"It's no problem, Al, really, I'm just so happy you're here," Matthew flashed a grin at him and resumed browsing. "This one's a little warm for July, but I think it would look grand on you."

"No, Mattie, I…" Alfred sighed frustratedly, annoyed that he had to spell it out. "I can't wear your clothes. They're too big for me." Matt stopped what he was doing and turned to his brother in confusion.

"No they're not," he said, as if the idea were absurd. "You've been the same size as me for the last thirty years."

"Yes, well, thirty years ago I hadn't just survived a goddamn civil war now, had I?" Alfred snapped, with far more venom than he'd intended. Matthew looked shocked, and then he blushed. When he started to look up and down Alfred's slight frame more critically, Alfred looked away. "I'm sorry, Mattie, I shouldn't have shouted. I just… I'm smaller now, is all. Still trying to gain back some weight. It's not… it's taking a while. If I put on your shirts, I'll look like I'm drowning," he forced a half grin, trying to regain some levity.

Matthew pursed his lips, glancing at Alfred's shoulders and waist. "Wait here," he said. He left and returned shortly with a footman's suit, rows of brass buttons and all.

"Put this on," Matthew instructed, "quickly, dinner will be cold."

They dressed him in the footman's trousers and shirt and one of Matthew's favorite ivory waistcoat. They'd had to cinch the back so tightly to fit that the edge was comically ruffled. Thankfully the trouble was hidden once Alfred donned the footman's jacket. Matthew topped off the hastily-drafted ensemble with a dashing sapphire tie. While Matthew straightened the knot, Alfred caught his reflection in the mirror over Matthew's shoulder. He certainly looked better now than he had ten minutes ago, but the dark circles under his eyes remained, as did the sunken hollows of his cheeks and the bony juts of his shoulders. And not even such a dashing collar and tie could conceal the skinniness of his neck.

"I look like death was warmed up and rolled into a suit," Al said hopelessly. "I can't see Arthur and Francis like this."

"They'll be happy to see you _alive,_ Al," Matthew told him, finishing off the tie and giving it a pat. "They've been asking after you constantly. They've been worried for you, as have I."

"Worried," Alfred scoffed. "Worried because I didn't roll over and die for the sake of King Cotton, are they?" Matthew smacked Alfred lightly in the stomach.

"Stop it. That's not true, and you know it." Matthew's annoyance transformed into concern when Alfred remained bent over his stomach where Matthew had hit him and a quiet groan escaped him. "Sorry," Matthew said. "I didn't think you were still, that is, I shouldn't have–"

"It's alright," Alfred said, voice thin as he straightened. "It happens."

"Come on," Matthew said once Alfred had recovered. He grasped him gently by the arm and threaded it through his own. "Let's get you some food."

* * *

Seeing Alfred Jones in the flesh was akin to an out of body experience for both Francis and Arthur. Matthew had returned, grinning like the sun, before Mr. Martins introduced their new guest and Alfred came through the door, looking completely unlike himself.

 _Jesus Mary and Joseph, he's skin and bones,_ was Arthur's first thought, and his second, _he looks like he's seen a ghost—or a hundred thousand of them._

Still, Alfred was all smiles and polite nods as he said hello to the patrons of Rideau Hall and apologized for his late arrival. He was even smiling when he acknowledged Francis and Arthur, but said little by way of greeting before he was seated down to eat.

They'd made room for Alfred's table setting to Matthew's left, leaving Francis on Alfred's left side, separated from Arthur by both twins. The Frenchman suspected he would have _much_ to discuss with Arthur by the time the meal was over.

It was obvious that Alfred's manners were out of practice, but he was making a valiant effort to model well-bred gentility. It was, however, equally obvious that he was starving. He arrived over halfway through the main course and began his meal as others were nearly finished, but by the time the wait staff arrived to clear the table, Alfred's plate was wiped clean. His furtive looks to and fro, Francis suspected, were efforts to locate more food. While they waited for dessert, the elder nation decided to distract him.

"You are a difficult man to track down, _Amerique,"_ he tried to ignore it when Alfred looked startled upon being spoken to. "I had it on good authority you were in _La Nouvelle Orléans_ last spring, and thought to find you and ask you to coffee, only to find my best informants were mistaken." Alfred gave a shy smile.

"Oh, no, I was uh… I haven't been down there in quite a while," he said. It was only after this that Francis realized New Orleans had been a city hotly embroiled in the war—and the aftermath. He mentally kicked himself.

"As I say, you've been quite elusive. I've missed you, Alfred." Such an admission made Alfred duck his head, as if confused by such a notion. France watched him a moment more before asking, "how are you, _mon bon ami?"_

"I'm…" Alfred began, staring into the middle distance with a lost sort of ferocity that France recognized from the years following his own bloody revolution. "I'm… doing better than I was," He said carefully, and looked back to Francis. The elder man smiled softly, sadly.

" _Bien,"_ he whispered, and could not resist reaching out and taking Alfred by the hand, giving it a squeeze. " _Le monde célèbre avec toi_."

After dessert, the party moved back to the dance floor. The musicians struck a slower tone than before, inviting partners to waltz leisurely about the room as wine flowed amongst those who found the sidelines better suited to digestion. Alfred clung to the edge of the room, determined to survive the evening without dancing or drawing undo attention to himself.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he jumped violently, nearly spilling his drink.

"Terribly sorry," said a voice, which was nearly as triggering as the touch. He turned to face Arthur Kirkland, who gave him a smile. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"Arthur," Alfred acknowledged cagedly, not sure where this encounter would go. Arthur looked almost hurt.

"It's good to see you again," he said, and Alfred remained silent. Arthur sighed. "Truly, Alfred, do you think so little of me to not believe me when I say I was concerned for you?"

"Your shipbuilders seemed to think quite differently," Alfred replied immediately. "As did your gentry." Arthur cleared his throat and glanced around, glad to find none of his countrymen eavesdropping.

"Surely you know by now the vast differences of opinion that can exist between a Nation and their Government," Arthur said, fighting to sound patient. "I cannot apologize for either my gentry or my shipbuilders, for their actions and beliefs are their own, but likewise, they cannot dispute my own sentiments. I've been worried for you. It does my old heart good to see you again."

"Bet you like what you see," Alfred quipped, unwilling to let go of his bitterness. "Weaker than ever, smaller than ever, I bet you're thinking how you could break me in half. Well it's not going to happen." Arthur was only half-listening to Alfred's little speech, because he was busy considering how despite his emaciated frame and sunken eyes, Alfred had grown taller in the last few years, and was now several centimeters taller than Arthur. "I'm not going to just disappear because you Europeans never figured out how to grow your own damn cotton," Alfred was saying.

"I should hope not," Arthur said eventually, tone slipping into the well-worn ruts of their mutual rivalry. He knew Alfred would find it more comfortable than hearing of how Arthur had been wringing his hands over Alfred's fate for the last five years, and anyway, Alfred's attitude was beginning to grate on Arthur's nerves. Swallowing his feelings with expertise, Arthur quirked an eyebrow and said, "The world would be a far less interesting place without lunatics like you to stir the pot. Had we transatlantic wires these last several years, I would have had several choice things to say to your Dear Southern Friend. Chief among them would be to not bother with you, as you're really not worth the trouble." Alfred scoffed, and the sound was as close to a laugh as Arthur had heard from him all evening.

"A lot of trouble for nothing," Alfred agreed, shaking his head.

"Not nothing," Arthur corrected him. "Even civil wars are never for nothing. It's your job to find out what it was for. First, though, you ought to have another glass of wine." Arthur tapped the wine stem in Alfred's hands, which he'd left largely untouched.

"Why?" the younger man wanted to know.

"Because if you do not start making a dent, your brother will have your share, and he's inherited the Frog's habit of turning into an overly-affectionate drunk."

At that, Alfred actually _did_ laugh, and Arthur counted it as a victory.

* * *

Alfred snuck out of the ballroom shortly after midnight, when most of the partygoers were too sleepy or tipsy to notice his absence. He went up to Matthew's room and changed back into his traveling clothes. Careful not to wrinkle them any more than they already were, he folded his borrowed outfit and placed it into a neat square on Matthew's bed. He patted his pockets to make sure he had all of his personal effects, and then dug out a small box, which he placed atop the folded clothes.

"Happy birthday, Mattie," he whispered, and turned to the door.

Matthew opened the door and froze.

"What–" He realized that Alfred was fully dressed for the outdoors, and panicked. "Where are you going? You're not leaving, are you?" Alfred looked apologetic.

"I can't stay, Mattie." The words registered to the northern twin like a physical blow, and in the dim lamplight his eyes shone with emotion.

"What? Why? You've only just arrived here, I haven't seen you in years, none of us have, and now you're just going to, to leave? Is it something I've done?" He needed to know.

"What? No, no, it's not you, truly. It's not even Francis, or rotten old Arthur." Matthew crossed his arms, determined to ignore the slight. "It's just…" Alfred wore a pained expression, gesturing futilely to the world around him in an attempt to measure the invisible weight of years. "I'm not ready," he said helplessly. "I thought I was, but I was wrong. I'm sorry, Matt. I need to go home. Or as close to home as I can get."

Matthew didn't say anything in return. Instead, he stepped fully into the room and shut the door quietly behind him. After a moment more, he went over to Alfred and, without asking, wrapped the other in his arms. Alfred melted into the embrace, and reached around to cling to his twin with a fervor, knowing it would be a long time before they did this again.

"I'm so glad you came," Matthew said thickly. "I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you too, Mattie," Alfred said, suddenly fighting tears. "You have no idea." They stood there in silence for a while, listening to each other's breathing, memorizing the sound of each other's heartbeats.

"You'll write?" Matthew asked.

"Of course I will. And I'll be sure to tell you where to send your letters."

"Still avoiding Washington, then." Alfred heaved an exhausted sigh, and did not answer. Matthew pet his hair in apology. "It's going to be okay, Al. I promise you. It's going to be okay."

Alfred dug his face into his brother's shoulder and quietly wept, just for a moment. When the moment passed, he pulled away and sniffed. He looked behind him and found the small box he'd been intending to leave for Matthew to find later.

"Here," he said. "I know it's not much, but it's not every day you get so celebrate your brother's new birthday."

"It's not my birthday," Matthew rolled his eyes, even if he secretly liked the idea.

"Mattie, come on, it's practically your independence day."

"Al!" Mattie hissed back, "I'm not _independent."_ Alfred chuckled at his scandalized expression.

"Well maybe you should be," he tossed the box and Matthew was forced to catch it with one hand. He glanced at it, and with another look at Al, opened it. The was a small note on top that read:

_Happy Birthday, Mattie! Three days before mine, but I'm still older than you. Here's to your newfound freedoms and here's to may more in the future._

"You're not older than me," Matthew reminded him. "We're the same age, you dolt."

"Semantics," Alfred shrugged. Matthew shook his head and unwrapped the gift underneath. He gasped.

"Oh," he said, pulling it from its case. "Alfred, this is beautiful." It was a shining silver pocket watch with mother-of-pearl and gold inlays on the front in the shape of many tiny, immaculate flower blossoms. "Where did you get this? It's incredible."

"San Francisco is really turning into something, not like anything here out east," Alfred said, a measure of pride in his voice. "I met a clockmaker who moved there from Japan—all of his stuff is like that, and better! You'll have to come see for yourself sometime."

"I will," Matthew said, turning the watch over in his hands. He opened the front cover and found an equally stunning clock face of mother-of-pearl and crisp gold arms. On the interior of the lid, there was an engraving: _Tendit in ardua virtus._ "Virtue strives for that which is difficult," Matthew translated, and eyed Alfred. "You're quoting Ovid at me, now?" Alfred shrugged, wearing a knowing smile.

"Just thought I should remind you that 'Dominion' doesn't have to be the end of the road."

"You're unbelievable," Matthew scoffed, shaking his head and smiling. He clicked the lid closed. "Don't hold your breath," he said, and reached out to hug Alfred once more. "But believe me, if it ever happens, you'll be the first to know." He could feel Alfred smiling against his neck. Too soon, they pulled apart.

"Let me walk you to the train station," he said on impulse.

"At this time of night? And leave all your guests? No, Mattie, I'll be fine, really."

"Well at least let me have Mr. Martins bring the coach, and pack you some food for the morning. Please, Al. As a thank you for your gift." Alfred had to admit, an extra helping of food did sound good.

Once the coach was set up and Alfred bundled into the car, Matthew stood outside the window while Alfred leaned out to say their last goodbyes.

"I've had the kitchens pack you enough food to get you through to your next transfer," Matthew said, heaving a large cloth-wrapped bundle through the window. "Try not to eat it all at once," he teased. "And while I don't have anything as extravagant as a watch, I heard you were missing these." Matthew handed Alfred a small waxed-paper bag, which he opened. It was full to the brim with huckleberry candies. He looked up to Matthew, astonished.

"They aren't from Chicago," he amended. "But they are from my house by the lake. I hope they'll remind you of what home really is." Alfred felt himself growing misty-eyed, and fought the feeling.

"Thanks, Mattie."

Matthew reached up and grabbed Alfred's face so he could bring it down to kiss him on the forehead. "Happy Birthday, Al. I'll miss you."

"I'll be back before you know it," Alfred winked, and ducked into the carriage. Matthew watched them pull away, and waved goodbye at the retreating car as it rumbled quietly down the long driveway.

"Mattie!" Alfred leaned out the carriage door to shout back, and Matthew was suddenly very glad that no one was awake to hear his brother when he next said with a beaming smile, "remember to tell Arthur that he still owes me a shit ton of money!"

* * *

_finis_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Dacquoise ganache et fraises = Dacquoise cake with chocolate ganache and strawberries. Dacquoise cake is a layered cake often made with chocolate ganache and hazelnuts—fun fact, ganache was invented just a few years before this, around 1850.
> 
> Tu es trop amusant pour taquiner = you are too fun to tease
> 
> Fleuve St. Laurent = St. Lawrence River, one of the primary waterways connecting inner parts of Canada to the Atlantic.
> 
> Je suis ici = Here I am
> 
> Ça ne fait rien = never mind / it does not matter
> 
> Seigneur Corsaire = "Lord Privateer". We all know Pirate Arthur was Peak Arthur, and Francis knows it, too.
> 
> Casse-toi = A very rude french phrase that basically means "fuck off".
> 
> Le monde célèbre avec toi = The world celebrates with you.
> 
> \------
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. Rideau House is the official residence of the Governor General of Canada. Originally constructed as a private residence by Thomas McKay for him and his family, the estate was leased from the McKay family by the Canaian government as a temporary residence for their viceroy until a permanent residence could be built, but later on, the government decided to purchase the property outright and renovate it instead of building afresh. It was originally noted to be an exceptionally small home for a state residence (it was not actually that small, only small by British aristocratic standards), but has since been added on to multiple times, the first significant expansion having been done by Lord Monck in 1865.
> 
> 2\. Mr. Bellecourt, Mr. Turnell, and Lady Renault are all characters of my own imagination, and are not historical. The 'Councilmen' referred to here are meant to be the Queens Privy Council, an advisory body to the viceroy of Canada.
> 
> 3\. In case it was not clear, they are here of course celebrating the first Dominion Day, now called Canada Day, which celebrates the confederation of Canada in 1867. The act of union enacted in that year united the Province of Canada (thereafter divided into Ontario and Quebec) with Nova Scotia and New Brunswick into the Dominion of Canada, which became an autonomous Dominion of the British Empire. (Other provinces which re now parts of Canada would join the confederation in later years.) This Act was the single most important step towards Canadian independence until the middle of the 20th century, when Canada would reach full sovereignty after the decline of the British Empire in the wake of World War II.
> 
> 4\. Francis' references to Napoleon's withdrawal of troops from Mexico is a reference to the fact that shortly after the American Civil War ended, France abandoned their visions for a European monarchy in Mexico, mostly because of how sternly the United States (thought technically neutral) disapproved of the goings-on. Essentially, Napoleon was willing to trade in his vision for a French-ruled Mexico in exchange for a positive relationship with the newly-victorious United States.
> 
> 5\. As mentioned in the last chapter, the third and most successful transatlantic cable was laid and put into operation in 1866, so by this time in the story, the boys have had reliable transatlantic telegram service for about a year.
> 
> 6\. Large numbers of Japanese immigrants would not arrive in San Francisco for a few more years, the first large boats arriving in 1869. However, I theorize that maybe there were one or two who'd made the trip already, and Alfred stumbled upon him when he went to visit the city.
> 
> 7\. Tends in ardua virus is a quote from Ovid's Epistulae ex Ponto.


End file.
